My dad made me a feminist.
Before you get all proud and happy about enlightened maleness, let me explain.
My honey and I stopped at my parents' place on our return trip from Voyageurs National Park and it was not good. Being off the grid for a week meant that I missed the whole #yesallwomen phenomenon and the crime that inspired it, but I find this hashtag and its attendant backlash very interesting because of my own situation.
My dad does not accept me for who I am. I suspect that he never has. My choices are never right, my decisions are wrong, and my opinions are irrelevant. I'm actually not sure if any parent anywhere has the ability and willingness to accept their kids the way they are, but I have many friends with kids now and they certainly seem to accept their kids as they are...but you never know what goes on in the home. My story is a case in point.
Every time my friends have met my parents, for my whole life, they always come away impressed with my folks' vigor, energy, and kindness. My parents are great in public. But you know that idea about public face versus private face? Yeah. Well.
Here's an example of what goes on to this day when I am in my parents' home:
Dad starts talking about how a CA town needs to take water from somewhere in another state or they'll go dry. I mention that's been done before, how it's not a good idea for the people living in the place where the water is, and...
Dad stands up and cuts me off with a loud and vehement, "I don't want to hear any of your liberal crap!"
I turn my head and stare at my honey and my mom, who gently scolds dad's comment. I'm used to being silenced by my dad. He's been trying to silence me my entire life.
I proceed anyway and explain the story of the Hetch-Hetchy Valley, how John Muir fought to keep the valley from being flooded to provide San Francisco with water, and how devastating that dam was to the ecosystem in the Yosemite region. I then attempt to bring up the Glen Canyon Dam, which now blocks the Colorado River from flowing freely, that was installed to create a recreation area as well as to provide electricity for the region.
Dad's getting angrier and angrier and as per usual, starts yelling about how I don't know what I'm talking about and on and on and on.
I am a feminist because the example of male behavior I grew up with showed me that men control, dominate, and silence women.
During this same visit, I asked my parents if we could please have a half gallon of gas - they have several five gallon cans in the shed full of gasoline - and we arrived with the low fuel light on. It was Memorial Day and they live five miles from the nearest gas station, so I figured taking a half gallon would guarantee we would not get stuck on the way to get gas in the morning. I offered to pay for it, too.
Mom said yes.
Dad said no. Because he didn't want to have to drive that five miles to fill up that lost half gallon.
He would rather me run out of gas and get stuck on the side of a remote mountain road than give or sell me a half gallon of gas.
In the morning, I whispered to my mom: "Let's go out to the shed so I can get that gas."
She said, to my horror, "I dare not override your father."
Shocked and appalled, I whispered, "He'll never know! Don't tell him, just let's go."
True to her word, she went over to the dining room table, where my dad was talking to my honey, and interrupted them to ASK if she could give me a half gallon of gas. I was on my way out the front door, and just heard my dad protesting mightily. I shut the door and walked out to the shed. Mom joined me and I tried handing her a five dollar bill. She declined it and said, "I'm not like Dad."
"Good thing, or I'd never be here," I said.
The worst part of the visit was shortly after we had arrived the night before. We were sitting in the living room and Mom announced that they would not be coming to my annual summer party this year. My dad then took over and gave only one reason - they would rather stay home.
This weekend, they are traveling to visit two different sets of friends in SC and GA.
But they don't want to drive across the state to attend my family and friend party that I've put on each summer, usually around my birthday in July, because I just enjoy being surrounded by the people I care about.
Evidently, that's not enough. Dad would rather stay home than come to my party and see me.
To say I'm insulted is an understatement.
And to show how serious their plan to remain home is, my mom gave me my birthday present right then and there. On Memorial Day.
As we left, it occurred to me that my Dad must love me because I'm his daughter, but he definitely doesn't like me. He never asked me anything during our visit or addressed me directly, except to yell at me to be quiet.
I left home at 18 because of this. I am a feminist because of this.
I am also a feminist because my Mom can't be. I really listened during our visit and almost every sentence that came out of her mouth deferred to my dad: He wants, he likes, he doesn't want, he doesn't like. I wanted so badly to ask my mom, in my dad's presence, what does SHE want? But I know her answer because I've asked her before. She would say, "It's just easier this way." And if I asked in his presence, there would have been a fight, as usual. For my mom, it's easier to just cater to my dad's every whim because of the stressful misery her life becomes when she doesn't.
I'm a feminist because my mom has spent most of her adult life serving a man who sees fit to insult, be mean, and silence both her and her daughter whenever he feels like it and then acts like it's our fault - we brought it on - it's not him, it's us.
The repercussions of this reality still affect me today. I have tried, very hard, to NOT look at men like the enemy - but I do not have a healthy relationship with men. Even my honey now, whom I trust and who has done more for me than any man ever has, and who is NOTHING like my father, feels the brunt of my unintended reactions. Every suggestion is a sharp criticism in my damaged brain. When he told me this weekend that he might as well change his name to my dad's name because that's how I treat him, I felt this comment like a punch to the solar plexus. I was devastated all over again and remained upset all night.
My dad never beat me, and always provided financial security, but he did damage me. He's kind and outgoing to my cousin, his friends, my friends, but he is not kind and outgoing to me. Not only do I feel disrespected, I also feel so very sad. Because this is my reality and even when he's gone, I will still have to deal with the consequences.
That's why I'm a feminist.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
"The immortal truth and beauty of Nature"
John Muir, a writer and one of the most significant environmental activists in the United States (we have him to thank for Yosemite National Park), wrote passionately about wildness and wilderness, plants and mountains, creatures large and tiny, and above all, the inherent value of Nature. Although he wasn't necessarily focused on the cultivated landscapes of gardens, his words and ideas inform my attitude and approach toward both national parks and my own garden, which is certainly cultivated, planned, and constructed, but not fussy and precise. My own natural space may be a pale comparison to the grandeur and scale of such parks as Yosemite, Yellowstone, and Glacier, but it brings me a similar feeling of contentment and perspective. I came across this quote today from Muir's essay, "Cedar Keys:"
"I joyfully return to the immortal truth and immortal beauty of Nature."
Recently, I've been working hard to install new beds for squash and melons, as well as planting hundreds of zinnia, sunflower, and marigold seeds, and new shade plants to replace the ones killed by the arctic blast this winter. Yesterday, I finished the planting and sat down to enjoy the results of my labors. As I sat still and observed, I felt compelled to write about what I saw and heard:
Fat, industrious black and gold bumblebees buzz loudly from dying flower to dying flower on the nearly spent pale pink azalea. Two other azaleas crowd nearby, sill lush and heavy with firm, open blossoms in white and fuschia, but the dying pink flowers must be sweeter for they hold the bees' attention the most. Zinnia and marigold sprouts show two, four, six leaves, ornamental grasses now feature more thirsty green than dry hay-colored remnants of last season's growth, and the Dutch Irises rise above the rock wall in defiance of last year's harsh chewing abuse by the local groundhog. The oak leaf hydrangea dangles dried brown flowers while sporting crowns of sage green leaves from nearly the same spot on each branch. Clematis vines grow rapidly at this time of year, seemingly inches a day, as the sun heats up and the wind softens.
Robins, cardinals, catbirds, sparrows, hawks, crows, and buzzards all make appearances on land and in the air under a blue sky whispered with streaks of white clouds. Bullfrogs harumph deep resonances from the creek out back. The first mosquitoes follow me inside, smelling dinner. The Russian Sage looks dead and dry, but on each thin stalk and branch, silvery green lace stands tall, and the raspberry and blackberry canes are growing so vigorously, they seem like an advertisement for organic gardening.
The garden is alive. Lush, vibrant, and healthy. I look forward to witnessing its changes each day, for there is always something new to see, smell, hear, or experience. This tranquil oasis bursting with color, texture, and life brings me back to me. A needed reminder that petty human behavior is like so much pollen blowing out of the trees - hardly worth noticing even though it makes you miserable for a short time, because in the end, the pollen washes away, leaving the constancy of nature - something greater and worth more than the minor temporary annoyance caused by the blowing pollen.
It may not be a national park, but my garden helps me understand what Muir meant when he wrote about joyfully returning to the immortal truth and beauty of Nature.
Monday, April 28, 2014
World’s Shortest (Feminist) Fairy Tale
So this "delightful" meme is showing up all over social media, shared by men who find it amusing, laugh-out-loud funny, and completely harmless:
And therein lies the problem. Memes and ideas such as these are not harmless, are not delightful, and are not funny because misogyny. Doubters should read this fine definition on that reviled (and yet relied-upon) site, Wikipedia: Misogyny. Hating women does extend to such "harmless silliness" represented by this meme (one of many women-hating memes, trust me.) Hating women is ubiquitous and continues unabated. Just watch this latest takedown of Bill O'Reilly by two of his female guests AND Stephen Colbert over Hillary Clinton's potential run for the White House in 2016:
Instead of ranting on about why misogyny and anti-women memes, and misogynistic ideas are a problem, I simply offer this counternarrative. Enjoy.
The End, which is not really an end, but more of a new beginning.
And therein lies the problem. Memes and ideas such as these are not harmless, are not delightful, and are not funny because misogyny. Doubters should read this fine definition on that reviled (and yet relied-upon) site, Wikipedia: Misogyny. Hating women does extend to such "harmless silliness" represented by this meme (one of many women-hating memes, trust me.) Hating women is ubiquitous and continues unabated. Just watch this latest takedown of Bill O'Reilly by two of his female guests AND Stephen Colbert over Hillary Clinton's potential run for the White House in 2016:
Instead of ranting on about why misogyny and anti-women memes, and misogynistic ideas are a problem, I simply offer this counternarrative. Enjoy.
World’s Shortest (Feminist) Fairy Tale
Once upon a time, a guy asked a girl, “Will you marry me?”
The girl said, “No!”
And the girl, who was really not a girl, but a young woman of 21, lived happily ever after in a home she purchased with her own money, earned from the career that she carved out with her creativity and intelligence and networking skills, went hiking and camping and fishing and to theatre shows and art galleries and museums and she ate gourmet dinners and fine wines and traveled and read books and widened her circle of friends every year and hired a cleaning service to keep her house clean so that she could enjoy even more of life, and enjoyed the company of men whenever she wanted until she chose a different path.
The End, which is not really an end, but more of a new beginning.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
What First Year Composition Isn't
My three-year term as the University Writing Center Director is coming to a close in May and I find myself filled with emotions. So many unexpected things have happened during my time as director and I've learned so much about people, managing, administration, and negotiating expectations. As a result, I have so much to say, but I will just end my time in this position by sharing some knowledge that has been reinforced for me over and over again during the past three years. It has been quite the ride. With this, I bid adieu to the Writing Center and wish my successor and all of the tutors the very best wishes for a successful operation.
What First Year Composition (FYC) Isn't
FYC is not the training ground for other disciplines. Bio and Psych and Soc and Business and Art (etc) profs who want their students to know HOW to write Bio and Psych and Soc and Business and Art (etc) research papers should dedicate class time to teaching that type of discipline-specific writing. Why on earth is this such a hard concept to grasp? It is infuriating to those of us who try to teach freshmen the basics about how to write at a college level in 15 weeks. We are not multi-disciplinary experts and do NOT teach students how to write in every discipline.
FYC is not the dumping ground for complaints about student writing readiness in the disciplines. While there are research projects generally required in FYC, they vary and may delve into the creative, digital, and multimodal realms instead of remaining locked into one rigid disciplinary style. And guess what? That teaches students flexibility as they learn how to navigate different audiences, different medium expectations, and different rhetorical choices.
The lessons of FYC may not be retained by college students two, three, and four years after they've taken the class. In fact, when students leave FYC, if they do not receive regular writing instruction along with subject studies, they will lose the ability to write coherently and cohesively with research as well as anecdotes. Writing, like any skill, must be PRACTICED.
FYC is not the Holy Grail of writing instruction. It is the rough and ready basic training to get students in shape to continue learning additional writing skills and techniques at the college level. But when those additional lessons are not forthcoming because the other disciplines don't want to spend the time teaching students HOW to write in those disciplines, then the students will not do well. They don't know how to write in those disciplines because no one has taught them how.
FYC is not enough. Fifteen weeks is not enough time to fully train student writers. Fifteen weeks is barely enough time to get them on board. When they leave us, we know what they are walking in to - classes that tell them they must write, but don't explain how. Assignments that ask them to incorporate research in specific ways that they may have never encountered before, but no one is bothering to stop and teach them how to do so in that discipline. Students need more time to develop as writers across the disciplines, and they need the practical instruction of their professors IN those disciplines. Students do not come pre-loaded with disciplinary writing knowledge and it appalls me that there are profs out there who expect this.
FYC is not the enemy. Too many professors and administrators across colleges and disciplines turn their noses up at composition, the professionals who teach this difficult and varied subject, and the students who successfully complete the course. The time for nose turning is over. Enough with the snobbery and unrealistic expectations. Our students come from such immensely varied backgrounds with different levels of experience with writing - some have never written a research paper in high school and have no idea what that even means - others have written advanced research projects that synthesize multiple authors' perspectives. And these two students sit side by side in one of our classes. We must navigate a middle ground between them so that they both learn something. And we do a damn good job of it.
Now, go thank a composition professor, and continue about your day. :)
What First Year Composition (FYC) Isn't
FYC is not the training ground for other disciplines. Bio and Psych and Soc and Business and Art (etc) profs who want their students to know HOW to write Bio and Psych and Soc and Business and Art (etc) research papers should dedicate class time to teaching that type of discipline-specific writing. Why on earth is this such a hard concept to grasp? It is infuriating to those of us who try to teach freshmen the basics about how to write at a college level in 15 weeks. We are not multi-disciplinary experts and do NOT teach students how to write in every discipline.
FYC is not the dumping ground for complaints about student writing readiness in the disciplines. While there are research projects generally required in FYC, they vary and may delve into the creative, digital, and multimodal realms instead of remaining locked into one rigid disciplinary style. And guess what? That teaches students flexibility as they learn how to navigate different audiences, different medium expectations, and different rhetorical choices.
The lessons of FYC may not be retained by college students two, three, and four years after they've taken the class. In fact, when students leave FYC, if they do not receive regular writing instruction along with subject studies, they will lose the ability to write coherently and cohesively with research as well as anecdotes. Writing, like any skill, must be PRACTICED.
FYC is not the Holy Grail of writing instruction. It is the rough and ready basic training to get students in shape to continue learning additional writing skills and techniques at the college level. But when those additional lessons are not forthcoming because the other disciplines don't want to spend the time teaching students HOW to write in those disciplines, then the students will not do well. They don't know how to write in those disciplines because no one has taught them how.
FYC is not enough. Fifteen weeks is not enough time to fully train student writers. Fifteen weeks is barely enough time to get them on board. When they leave us, we know what they are walking in to - classes that tell them they must write, but don't explain how. Assignments that ask them to incorporate research in specific ways that they may have never encountered before, but no one is bothering to stop and teach them how to do so in that discipline. Students need more time to develop as writers across the disciplines, and they need the practical instruction of their professors IN those disciplines. Students do not come pre-loaded with disciplinary writing knowledge and it appalls me that there are profs out there who expect this.
FYC is not the enemy. Too many professors and administrators across colleges and disciplines turn their noses up at composition, the professionals who teach this difficult and varied subject, and the students who successfully complete the course. The time for nose turning is over. Enough with the snobbery and unrealistic expectations. Our students come from such immensely varied backgrounds with different levels of experience with writing - some have never written a research paper in high school and have no idea what that even means - others have written advanced research projects that synthesize multiple authors' perspectives. And these two students sit side by side in one of our classes. We must navigate a middle ground between them so that they both learn something. And we do a damn good job of it.
Now, go thank a composition professor, and continue about your day. :)
Thursday, April 10, 2014
An Open Letter to Student Writers (of All Ages)
Dear student writers,
You may already be rolling your eyes at yet another "older, wiser" adult trying to give you advice. I understand because that's what I would have done at your age. The reason I write to you now, however, really is important. It's about your voice and your writing style. First, let me tell you a story.
When I was a sophomore in high school, my English teacher handed back one of my essays with a D on it. As a strong writer from a young age, I was angry. I approached my teacher and asked her why she graded my work with a D? She explained that I wrote the essay wrong, in the wrong tone, in the wrong voice. But I write in my voice, I said, and I included everything you asked for. She shook her head and said, you wrote the wrong way. I advocated for my own voice and was told that I was wrong.
I took the essay to my parents and explained what had happened. To their credit, they have always encouraged my creative expression and individuality in all forms, especially writing, so they set up a meeting with my teacher. The principal attended. I was not present, but they advocated for my voice and because they were adults who knew the words to use, I ended up with a B and a raft of dirty looks from that teacher for the rest of the school year.
That was the moment I understood that there would always be people who disliked my writing voice. But I am stubborn enough to use it anyway. And decades later, when I decided to become a writing professor, that moment rushed back into my mind and I was angry all over again. Never would I make any of my students feel that their writing voices, styles, and choices were wrong.
So that's the takeaway for you. I'm sure you've been told by one or more teachers that you are writing something wrong. If we're talking grammar and spelling and punctuation - easily discovered and fixed errors - that's different. I'm willing to bet that you've heard a teacher tell you that you are writing something the wrong way simply because you chose a different path, a different subject, or a different tone or approach. Perhaps you were trying to infuse a boring litany of facts with some life with an anecdote of personal experience and ended up with a D because you strayed too far outside the rubric's boundaries.
Sometimes, the consequences of advocating for your own voice will be bad grades. In my Master's program, I took a hideous course on James Joyce. I can hear the reverberations of complaints as academics and writers read that phrase "hideous course on James Joyce" because for some reason people love him. Fine. I don't. I'm not a particular fan of Faulkner either. So there. Back to my story. I took this course because I needed a course and that was the only one available, so I struggled through and tried very hard to learn something. Sadly, I suffered then and suffer to this day from Eyerollitis, a low Bullshit tolerance, and Whisperedasideaxis, which means I wasn't the professor's favorite. My final research project was A-level work, but earned a B because he didn't like my attitude. Fair enough. So much for a perfect 4.0. Sometimes you gladly take the consequences just to be yourself.
When it comes to writing, no one has the right to dictate the terms of your creativity, or contain the exuberance of your voice. We get this so wrong in education. What we need in this world is more voices, different voices, unique perspectives, not more of the same, cookie-cutter writers writing the same way about the same subjects ad nauseam.
Please remember this. Remember that whether you are 13 or 16 or 18 or 22, your voice is your own, your style is your own, and your voice is valuable and right just the way it is, as it is. Make sure you hit all of the grammatical correctness issues - proofread carefully and construct confidently - but we need more writers to break down the barriers and push through the boundaries. And although I am loathe to admit it, James Joyce broke those barriers with aplomb, and so did Faulkner. I admire those writers for their willingness to take chances, leap into the unknown with vigor, and flout conventionality. I strive to do the same with my own work and try very hard to help my students see the value of their own words.
Write from your soul. Write what is true and real. Write fearlessly. And don't be afraid when someone, a teacher, a parent, a friend, doesn't like what you've written - it's too unsettling, it's too sad, it's too angry, it's too unfamiliar. Good. Make people uncomfortable. Make us think. Make us wonder. Make those people who say you aren't writing right sit back in wonder as you start to succeed.
Don't let anyone else dictate your voice and you will go far.
- Dr. M.
You may already be rolling your eyes at yet another "older, wiser" adult trying to give you advice. I understand because that's what I would have done at your age. The reason I write to you now, however, really is important. It's about your voice and your writing style. First, let me tell you a story.
When I was a sophomore in high school, my English teacher handed back one of my essays with a D on it. As a strong writer from a young age, I was angry. I approached my teacher and asked her why she graded my work with a D? She explained that I wrote the essay wrong, in the wrong tone, in the wrong voice. But I write in my voice, I said, and I included everything you asked for. She shook her head and said, you wrote the wrong way. I advocated for my own voice and was told that I was wrong.
I took the essay to my parents and explained what had happened. To their credit, they have always encouraged my creative expression and individuality in all forms, especially writing, so they set up a meeting with my teacher. The principal attended. I was not present, but they advocated for my voice and because they were adults who knew the words to use, I ended up with a B and a raft of dirty looks from that teacher for the rest of the school year.
That was the moment I understood that there would always be people who disliked my writing voice. But I am stubborn enough to use it anyway. And decades later, when I decided to become a writing professor, that moment rushed back into my mind and I was angry all over again. Never would I make any of my students feel that their writing voices, styles, and choices were wrong.
So that's the takeaway for you. I'm sure you've been told by one or more teachers that you are writing something wrong. If we're talking grammar and spelling and punctuation - easily discovered and fixed errors - that's different. I'm willing to bet that you've heard a teacher tell you that you are writing something the wrong way simply because you chose a different path, a different subject, or a different tone or approach. Perhaps you were trying to infuse a boring litany of facts with some life with an anecdote of personal experience and ended up with a D because you strayed too far outside the rubric's boundaries.
Sometimes, the consequences of advocating for your own voice will be bad grades. In my Master's program, I took a hideous course on James Joyce. I can hear the reverberations of complaints as academics and writers read that phrase "hideous course on James Joyce" because for some reason people love him. Fine. I don't. I'm not a particular fan of Faulkner either. So there. Back to my story. I took this course because I needed a course and that was the only one available, so I struggled through and tried very hard to learn something. Sadly, I suffered then and suffer to this day from Eyerollitis, a low Bullshit tolerance, and Whisperedasideaxis, which means I wasn't the professor's favorite. My final research project was A-level work, but earned a B because he didn't like my attitude. Fair enough. So much for a perfect 4.0. Sometimes you gladly take the consequences just to be yourself.
When it comes to writing, no one has the right to dictate the terms of your creativity, or contain the exuberance of your voice. We get this so wrong in education. What we need in this world is more voices, different voices, unique perspectives, not more of the same, cookie-cutter writers writing the same way about the same subjects ad nauseam.
Please remember this. Remember that whether you are 13 or 16 or 18 or 22, your voice is your own, your style is your own, and your voice is valuable and right just the way it is, as it is. Make sure you hit all of the grammatical correctness issues - proofread carefully and construct confidently - but we need more writers to break down the barriers and push through the boundaries. And although I am loathe to admit it, James Joyce broke those barriers with aplomb, and so did Faulkner. I admire those writers for their willingness to take chances, leap into the unknown with vigor, and flout conventionality. I strive to do the same with my own work and try very hard to help my students see the value of their own words.
Write from your soul. Write what is true and real. Write fearlessly. And don't be afraid when someone, a teacher, a parent, a friend, doesn't like what you've written - it's too unsettling, it's too sad, it's too angry, it's too unfamiliar. Good. Make people uncomfortable. Make us think. Make us wonder. Make those people who say you aren't writing right sit back in wonder as you start to succeed.
Don't let anyone else dictate your voice and you will go far.
- Dr. M.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Eight true confessions of a garden dreamer
Confession #1: I just spent $80 on zinnia seeds. But with names like Raspberry Lemonade, Queen Red Lime, White Wedding, and Zaraha Double Fire, how could I resist? :) Ok, so it wasn't the names that got me. It was the color and size varieties. I've decided to focus almost exclusively on zinnias this year as my annuals, which means no big box store or nursery petunias, lobelia, or other potted flowering annual standards for the back yard and most of my pots. That's my gardener logic - I'm spending more on seeds because I'll spend less on potted annuals later.
Oh, who am I kidding.
Hello, my name is Amanda and I'm addicted to my garden.
Confession #2: I'm creating a new garden bed this year just for squash and melons. Last year, the acorn and spaghetti squash took over my main 10' x 14' planting bed, along with the heirloom purple pole beans and sweet potatoes. If you walked by that bed in late July, you would not have known that there were pepper and tomato plants lurking in there. I must have done something right with the soil because everything did really well in that small space, crowding problems aside. But this year, I am DETERMINED to do better. I suspect all gardeners share this sickness.
Confession #3: I miss Paul James, The Gardener Guy. I love to cook, so I enjoy watching cooking shows for relaxation and education. I also read Food & Wine magazine and cookbooks, but sometimes, I just want to kick back with a lemonade and watch some cooking shows and dream. Same thing with gardening. I love to garden. Having my first home means having space for gardens - flowers, perennials, vegetables, fruit, shrubs, and trees. I read gardening books, web sites, and blogs. What I don't have is a good gardening show. Victory Garden on PBS is ok, but it's not on all the time and isn't the kind of hands-on show I'm looking for. I wish #HGTV would either resuscitate The Gardener Guy, or create a new show of the same style and energy as all of those hands-on cooking shows. Honestly, I couldn't care less about yard crashing - that's not useful to me! Nor is it entertaining because who the hell has a crew of 30 people, three days, and a limitless budget to do the overboard shit they do on those shows?! I mean, really. Give me someone who is mildly peppy, knowledgable, and capable of sharing information that helps me to learn something while being entertained. Is that REALLY asking too much #HGTV? Really?? :/
Confession #4: While purchasing my exorbitant amount of zinnia seeds, I also bought a packet of Chianti Hybrid Sunflower seeds that I will attempt to start when I return from this last academic conference of the season. And yes, it is a dark red wine-colored sunflower.
I may weep if the rabbits get these sunflowers.
Confession #5: I seem to be incapable of restraint when it comes to my garden. Whereas in other areas of my life, I am quite capable of showing an abundance of restraint, with my garden, I just want more. I haven't overloaded any of my beds...yet. But I suspect that my spacing is probably too close. But I do adore walking through my ever-changing garden and yard beginning right now and going all the way through the end of autumn - just watching and noticing every little change in the plants and weeds and soil. How the blanket flower pushes through the taller zinnias, how the pinwheel zinnias look like they are bursting out of the rock wall, how the scents shift and change day to day, how the abundance of colors and foliage and textures are so comforting and welcoming.
Hello, my name is Amanda and I have a plant spacing problem.
Confession #6: I don't use any pesticides in my gardens, but will not hesitate to kill any mammals that aim to eat my flowers and decimate my food plants.
What can I say? I am a zinnia mystery wrapped in a cypress vine enigma standing in a black raspberry paradox.
Confession #7: My garden spaces, the physical work, the planning, and the money spent are more consistently pleasurable to me than much of my paying job. I would not want to garden for a living because anytime you take something this pleasurable and turn it into a professional career, it kills the joyful spirit that drew you there in the first place. That's what happened to me with creative writing - I can no longer write fiction because I spent ten years earning my living as a professional writer. The ability to make stories up out of thin air dissipated like so many farts in the wind as each assignment ticked by over that decade and now, well, now I love my creative nonfiction, but my stories must be true to be both written and enjoyed (by me). It's the biggest reason why I haven't pushed my professional photography services too hard - I'm good enough to make a living as a photog, but I don't want to because I want to retain that creative curiousity and joy.
So, gardening. I'm just fine with gardening in my free time, in the evenings, on the rare weekend that I'm home. Gardening is pure joy. Because every night that I come home from work, beginning next week, before unlocking my front door, I will wander down the fenceline, into the backyard, and walk all the way around the entire space, pausing to observe, listen, feel leaves, pull a weed, enjoy the manipulated natural space that I am carving out for my own pleasure and when I enter the house, I will feel refreshed, relaxed, and re-invigorated with a sense of hope and peace.
Confession #8: I wish I had more land so that I could have a bigger garden. Knowing that this wish comes with a ton of extra work, I still wish I had more land. My man and I sometimes dream together about the perfect place for us - view of mountains, on a body of water, five acres with a large enough sunny space for an extra large and vigorous garden and plenty of room for flowering annuals, bulbs, perennials, shrubs, a large berry patch, perhaps a small orchard. Don't ask me when I will have the time to tend to all of this space and all of these plants...a woman can dream.
Hello, my name is Amanda and I dream about my future gardens.
Oh, who am I kidding.
Hello, my name is Amanda and I'm addicted to my garden.
Confession #2: I'm creating a new garden bed this year just for squash and melons. Last year, the acorn and spaghetti squash took over my main 10' x 14' planting bed, along with the heirloom purple pole beans and sweet potatoes. If you walked by that bed in late July, you would not have known that there were pepper and tomato plants lurking in there. I must have done something right with the soil because everything did really well in that small space, crowding problems aside. But this year, I am DETERMINED to do better. I suspect all gardeners share this sickness.
Confession #3: I miss Paul James, The Gardener Guy. I love to cook, so I enjoy watching cooking shows for relaxation and education. I also read Food & Wine magazine and cookbooks, but sometimes, I just want to kick back with a lemonade and watch some cooking shows and dream. Same thing with gardening. I love to garden. Having my first home means having space for gardens - flowers, perennials, vegetables, fruit, shrubs, and trees. I read gardening books, web sites, and blogs. What I don't have is a good gardening show. Victory Garden on PBS is ok, but it's not on all the time and isn't the kind of hands-on show I'm looking for. I wish #HGTV would either resuscitate The Gardener Guy, or create a new show of the same style and energy as all of those hands-on cooking shows. Honestly, I couldn't care less about yard crashing - that's not useful to me! Nor is it entertaining because who the hell has a crew of 30 people, three days, and a limitless budget to do the overboard shit they do on those shows?! I mean, really. Give me someone who is mildly peppy, knowledgable, and capable of sharing information that helps me to learn something while being entertained. Is that REALLY asking too much #HGTV? Really?? :/
Confession #4: While purchasing my exorbitant amount of zinnia seeds, I also bought a packet of Chianti Hybrid Sunflower seeds that I will attempt to start when I return from this last academic conference of the season. And yes, it is a dark red wine-colored sunflower.
I may weep if the rabbits get these sunflowers.
Confession #5: I seem to be incapable of restraint when it comes to my garden. Whereas in other areas of my life, I am quite capable of showing an abundance of restraint, with my garden, I just want more. I haven't overloaded any of my beds...yet. But I suspect that my spacing is probably too close. But I do adore walking through my ever-changing garden and yard beginning right now and going all the way through the end of autumn - just watching and noticing every little change in the plants and weeds and soil. How the blanket flower pushes through the taller zinnias, how the pinwheel zinnias look like they are bursting out of the rock wall, how the scents shift and change day to day, how the abundance of colors and foliage and textures are so comforting and welcoming.
Hello, my name is Amanda and I have a plant spacing problem.
Confession #6: I don't use any pesticides in my gardens, but will not hesitate to kill any mammals that aim to eat my flowers and decimate my food plants.
What can I say? I am a zinnia mystery wrapped in a cypress vine enigma standing in a black raspberry paradox.
Confession #7: My garden spaces, the physical work, the planning, and the money spent are more consistently pleasurable to me than much of my paying job. I would not want to garden for a living because anytime you take something this pleasurable and turn it into a professional career, it kills the joyful spirit that drew you there in the first place. That's what happened to me with creative writing - I can no longer write fiction because I spent ten years earning my living as a professional writer. The ability to make stories up out of thin air dissipated like so many farts in the wind as each assignment ticked by over that decade and now, well, now I love my creative nonfiction, but my stories must be true to be both written and enjoyed (by me). It's the biggest reason why I haven't pushed my professional photography services too hard - I'm good enough to make a living as a photog, but I don't want to because I want to retain that creative curiousity and joy.
So, gardening. I'm just fine with gardening in my free time, in the evenings, on the rare weekend that I'm home. Gardening is pure joy. Because every night that I come home from work, beginning next week, before unlocking my front door, I will wander down the fenceline, into the backyard, and walk all the way around the entire space, pausing to observe, listen, feel leaves, pull a weed, enjoy the manipulated natural space that I am carving out for my own pleasure and when I enter the house, I will feel refreshed, relaxed, and re-invigorated with a sense of hope and peace.
Confession #8: I wish I had more land so that I could have a bigger garden. Knowing that this wish comes with a ton of extra work, I still wish I had more land. My man and I sometimes dream together about the perfect place for us - view of mountains, on a body of water, five acres with a large enough sunny space for an extra large and vigorous garden and plenty of room for flowering annuals, bulbs, perennials, shrubs, a large berry patch, perhaps a small orchard. Don't ask me when I will have the time to tend to all of this space and all of these plants...a woman can dream.
Hello, my name is Amanda and I dream about my future gardens.
Thursday, March 6, 2014
The price of intervention
Recently, I saw a comment on a Facebook thread that set my teeth on edge. You've probably seen comments that do this to you as well. The commenter is being lighthearted and the content of the photo or link has nothing to do with the comment - it is just an add-on - a tangent. And yet, it is so potent and offensive in its casualness. Let me explain.
Here is the portion of the comment that caught my attention:
"...I want to run like the wind with a Pocahontas costume..."
For those of you who know me and know that my academic focus is Indigenous Rhetorics, you know that this kind of fun, easy, seemingly innocuous comment is anything but fun and innocuous. Easy? Yes, because of the ubiquity of misinformation about real Indigenous peoples and because of the ubiquity of misappropriation and misrepresentation about real Indigenous peoples, past and present. Fortunately, my friend whose photo this thread was on is understanding and reacted exceedingly well to my intervention comment.
To intervene or not? That is, perpetually, the question. Vine Deloria, Jr. wrote in Custer Died for Your Sins that "we need a cultural leave-us-alone agreement." He meant American Indians need us white people to leave them alone - stop writing about, studying, trying to help - just stop intervening. All respect to Deloria and his motivation for making this statement, but I disagree to a certain extent.
The price we pay for NOT intervening and NOT trying to help change the narrative about real Indigenous peoples and cultures is the continuation and predominance of misinformation, stereotypes, and misappropriation of Indigenous peoples, their cultures, practices, sacred items, languages, names, everything. If you doubt what I say, consider this brief list of products and organizations:
Cherikee Red soda, Washington Redskins, Calumet Baking Soda (logo), Land 'o Lakes Butter (logo), Cleveland Indians, Atlanta Braves (and their fans' charming "tomahawk chop"), Disney's Pocahontas, Princess Pocahottie (Halloween Costume), "What Makes the Redman Red?" (Disney song), Lone Ranger and Tonto (TV show and newer film), Firewater Whiskey, Jeep Cherokee, Ford Thunderbird, Winnebago (this is the "Chieftain" model), Crazy Horse Malt Liquor, Sue Bee Honey, Urban Outfitters' "Navajo Panties" et al, hipster headdresses. . . .I could go on.
Argument: All of these representations are racist.
Counterargument: "But we're honoring Natives!"
Here, read this. She says it better than I could. And has all of the persuasive visuals to back up her argument embedded in the post.
As an outsider to this issue, all I can do is feel sympathy and offer action in my own small way. So I post stories to Facebook, I teach college students, and I intervene online when I see a seemingly innocuous comment that I know was not intended to be offensive. Most people just don't know. And while I do have a great deal of sympathy for this unwitting lack of knowledge, I also understand that 'not knowing' is just shy of being a lame excuse. However, as I am committed to changing the narrative, I do my best not to be too aggressive in my approach. But the hesitance that I still feel, even after years of studying this issue, writing about it, and educating people. . .that hesitance is what bothers me.
I paused when I saw that FB thread comment. Stared at it. Read it over and over, in fact, debating whether to say something or not. I knew the stakes. My friend and her friend may not take too kindly to being told, even in the kindest terms, that Disney's Pocahontas is a complete misrepresentation that sets the stage for believing Native peoples to be fantasy relics of the past - invisible to our current lives. The stakes for me are fairly straightforward whenever I make public activist statements that advocate strongly for a position or a group - I may lose friends, I may make enemies, I may be thought of in ill-terms, or at least thought of with accompanying eye rolls. Interestingly, all of these thoughts did cross my mind, but then another thought dominated and it is the one that caused me to act.
I can handle losing friends, making enemies, and being thought of with eye-rolls. What I choose not to handle with silence (which, to me, implies acceptance) is the persistent expectation that Indigenous peoples do not currently exist and do not have feelings if they do. I consider myself fortunate to have many colleagues who hail from such diverse nations as Miami, Citizen Potawatomie, Eastern Band of Cherokee, Osage, and more. When I see such lighthearted comments, I think of my colleagues and students and the harm these types of comments are doing to them. And I just can't sit quietly by for the sake of peace in the family and friend circle.
I've never been one to leave anything alone, least of all a blatant injustice. I encourage you to consider intervening the next time you see any kind of lighthearted comment made about a group of people that you care about. The personal price is miniscule and worth paying if the result is just one more person who gets it.
Change may be slow, but as individuals, we must be willing to pay a small personal price in order to make progress. We will enjoy a more open, tolerant, and knowledgeable society, and that is the result of intervention.
Here is the portion of the comment that caught my attention:
"...I want to run like the wind with a Pocahontas costume..."
For those of you who know me and know that my academic focus is Indigenous Rhetorics, you know that this kind of fun, easy, seemingly innocuous comment is anything but fun and innocuous. Easy? Yes, because of the ubiquity of misinformation about real Indigenous peoples and because of the ubiquity of misappropriation and misrepresentation about real Indigenous peoples, past and present. Fortunately, my friend whose photo this thread was on is understanding and reacted exceedingly well to my intervention comment.
To intervene or not? That is, perpetually, the question. Vine Deloria, Jr. wrote in Custer Died for Your Sins that "we need a cultural leave-us-alone agreement." He meant American Indians need us white people to leave them alone - stop writing about, studying, trying to help - just stop intervening. All respect to Deloria and his motivation for making this statement, but I disagree to a certain extent.
The price we pay for NOT intervening and NOT trying to help change the narrative about real Indigenous peoples and cultures is the continuation and predominance of misinformation, stereotypes, and misappropriation of Indigenous peoples, their cultures, practices, sacred items, languages, names, everything. If you doubt what I say, consider this brief list of products and organizations:
Cherikee Red soda, Washington Redskins, Calumet Baking Soda (logo), Land 'o Lakes Butter (logo), Cleveland Indians, Atlanta Braves (and their fans' charming "tomahawk chop"), Disney's Pocahontas, Princess Pocahottie (Halloween Costume), "What Makes the Redman Red?" (Disney song), Lone Ranger and Tonto (TV show and newer film), Firewater Whiskey, Jeep Cherokee, Ford Thunderbird, Winnebago (this is the "Chieftain" model), Crazy Horse Malt Liquor, Sue Bee Honey, Urban Outfitters' "Navajo Panties" et al, hipster headdresses. . . .I could go on.
Argument: All of these representations are racist.
Counterargument: "But we're honoring Natives!"
Here, read this. She says it better than I could. And has all of the persuasive visuals to back up her argument embedded in the post.
As an outsider to this issue, all I can do is feel sympathy and offer action in my own small way. So I post stories to Facebook, I teach college students, and I intervene online when I see a seemingly innocuous comment that I know was not intended to be offensive. Most people just don't know. And while I do have a great deal of sympathy for this unwitting lack of knowledge, I also understand that 'not knowing' is just shy of being a lame excuse. However, as I am committed to changing the narrative, I do my best not to be too aggressive in my approach. But the hesitance that I still feel, even after years of studying this issue, writing about it, and educating people. . .that hesitance is what bothers me.
I paused when I saw that FB thread comment. Stared at it. Read it over and over, in fact, debating whether to say something or not. I knew the stakes. My friend and her friend may not take too kindly to being told, even in the kindest terms, that Disney's Pocahontas is a complete misrepresentation that sets the stage for believing Native peoples to be fantasy relics of the past - invisible to our current lives. The stakes for me are fairly straightforward whenever I make public activist statements that advocate strongly for a position or a group - I may lose friends, I may make enemies, I may be thought of in ill-terms, or at least thought of with accompanying eye rolls. Interestingly, all of these thoughts did cross my mind, but then another thought dominated and it is the one that caused me to act.
I can handle losing friends, making enemies, and being thought of with eye-rolls. What I choose not to handle with silence (which, to me, implies acceptance) is the persistent expectation that Indigenous peoples do not currently exist and do not have feelings if they do. I consider myself fortunate to have many colleagues who hail from such diverse nations as Miami, Citizen Potawatomie, Eastern Band of Cherokee, Osage, and more. When I see such lighthearted comments, I think of my colleagues and students and the harm these types of comments are doing to them. And I just can't sit quietly by for the sake of peace in the family and friend circle.
I've never been one to leave anything alone, least of all a blatant injustice. I encourage you to consider intervening the next time you see any kind of lighthearted comment made about a group of people that you care about. The personal price is miniscule and worth paying if the result is just one more person who gets it.
Change may be slow, but as individuals, we must be willing to pay a small personal price in order to make progress. We will enjoy a more open, tolerant, and knowledgeable society, and that is the result of intervention.
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