tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-350009942024-03-21T10:13:37.441-07:00EpiphaniesWhen you follow your bliss, doors will open where you would not have thought there would be doors and where there wouldn't be a door for anyone else -- Joseph Campbell.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-85461201319863738582009-07-25T15:16:00.000-07:002009-07-25T15:18:20.135-07:00Moving On...Dear few and far between who have been reading Epiphanies - <div><br /></div><div>I've moved from Blogger to Wordpress at <a href="http://nbawa.wordpress.com/">Wanderlust 2.0</a>. If you'd like to continue to read me, please head out there.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you,</div><div><br /></div><div>It's been real.</div><div><br /></div><div>Neha.</div>nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com113tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-78272144452441713622009-05-07T19:10:00.000-07:002009-05-07T19:11:27.982-07:00inside<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">from my poetry weblog, <a href="http://poemaddiction.wordpress.com/">poemAddiction</a>.</span><br /><br />remember a few years back when i asked you if i had any passion to live for? when I wanted to swirl around the room and dance and felt my feet stand still like they were built out of lead? i wanted to be moved by the movement of a higher power – the grating of the planets of their planes of existence and feel all creation surge through my veins? and you said i was a wonderful, complex, vibrant person, with this joie di vivre and love for all things creation?<br /><br />i have spent my days, since, searching, digging through mounds of dirt, like a vole trapped above its claws, pawing away at the secret that lay within me.<br /><br />so i think i found myself on the way.<br /><br />i have a hole in me now – i wear threadbare clothes that are so comfortable – you know, the perfect pair of denim jeans, that hug every curve of my body where they need to, and i slip and slide with them and into them, and take them along with me everywhere i go?<br /><br />my jeans? yeah…they have a hole. I have a hole in my pocket and a hole in my hands and a hole in my heart that i can’t sew back.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-73515266496677273382009-02-14T06:26:00.000-08:002009-02-14T06:29:08.927-08:00WordlessI see you in the beginning of sunrises,<br />when we sit across from each other<br />at our glass-top table, trying to see our<br />reflections.<br /><br />Did I ever tell you I hope you will put down<br />that newspaper, because I think it smells like glue,<br /><br />and because I can't see you through the folds of black and white and wrinkled words.<br /><br />There are stains on our table now<br /> - faint rings, crusted remains even, <br />where spotless glasses once stood side by side<br /><br />And between them, from the window, seeps in<br />just enough of a handful of sky.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-6592392763971933802009-02-05T10:17:00.000-08:002009-02-05T10:49:24.178-08:00The Other MeSomedays I think about living an alternative life. In my mind, another person swirls around, doing some things differently than I would. I'm not sure if that person is another me or just another person swirling around. I like that word, swirl. It has a great mouth feel to it...like custard. It's velvety, fun to play with and goes down easily. Swirl.<br /><br />But my alternative life? It combines every element of creativity known to us. Photography, painting, writing, music, food...it's what makes the world go around. It's what makes me go around and round the block, and over the tree top and under the bush and into the basement and out into the sky touching the roof.<br /><br />My alternative life has an art studio of my own. A room of my own. You like that? yea, I do too. <br /><br />So anyway...my art studio? It isn't terribly big. I imagine it to be a small, rectangular space, just big enough to fit a few drop cloths on the floor, an easel, paint brushes, enough shelves on the wall to fit oil paints and pastel and a window. I need a window. Light and warmth are my saviors.<br /><br />This is my room. The room where I dip brushes into pots of paint and let the motion and mood of my mind direct where my hand goes on the blank canvas. I swirl circles, dot on some polkas, play with short, choppy Van Gogh like brush strokes in every color imaginable and then I pull a Jackson Pollock and just end up framing my cream colored drop cloths tinted with body art.<br /><br />In the background, I have reggae music playing on my nearly extinct and highly dusty tape recorder. Bob Marley, maybe. Maybe even pretend reggae from UB40. I think that's better. I can sway my hips to Red, Red Wine and sip it from my cup too. Outside, from my window, I can see the sun and the clouds playing with each, trying to outdo the other's presence and turning the light into my studio into a controlled havoc. <br /><br />From my window, I can even see delicate, green tendrils of vines beginning to break through the ground and shoot up, bending their own bodies towards the sun, trying to follow it in the sky. Never mind that in this life, I have ten black thumbs. My alternative life has my own vegetable garden growing squash and corn and peas and potatoes and onions and carrots and cucumbers and tomatoes. I have a hen that lays eggs. I have a desk that is covered with sheets of paper with poems and artist statements and speeches scribbled all over them.<br /><br />And my own little Pulitzer prize, egging me on to skip the attack of the lazy, spend my days working and my nights in the company of the people I love.<br /><br />Oh. And my Pulitzer is a door stop. Because I like fruit cake.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-8964061924349916362009-02-04T13:13:00.000-08:002009-02-04T13:14:44.864-08:00The First One for 09I’m trying out a new venture. For years, I’ve thought about waking up early in the morning to spend at least half an hour writing before I start my day, but I’ve never actually done it.<br /><br />Since I’m making some major changes in my life, waking up early to write is going to be one of them.<br /><br />The others are to exercise more (check), eat and drink better (check), read more outside academia (working on it) and imbibe the principles of Buddhism into my life past intellectual knowledge (working on that too). As an aside, I’m quite enamored by HH The Dalai Lama, and I’ve begun reading a book of his quotes. The key is to live by his teachings. Nirvana? Some day.<br /><br />It’s difficult to break old habits. I’m not an early riser – never have been. Even more so because my bed is the center of gravity. But no matter – I’ve always taken stock in the old proverb, “A bad workman always blames his tools.” I’m rigorously applying this adage to myself so I can stop whining and making excuses and just write. I mean, seriously.<br /><br />Early morning observations today….<br />1. I’ve woken up to a morning after a snow fall and right now it’s really, really quiet. The only sounds I hear are of the snow shovels scraping the ground, the floorboards creaking under the weight of the weather, and of my feet, and the tap-tap-tap of my keyboard. <br />2. There’s perfect stillness in the air. In a short while, the day will begin, the world will get back to working and the stillness will be gone.<br />3. I may keep waking up this early just to breed familiarity with this stillness. Perhaps, someday, I may even be able to write about it.<br /><br />Hopefully, I'll be back tomorrow. But like JGT told me...I ain't gawn sweat it...nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-40669270354402477302008-11-01T15:22:00.000-07:002008-11-01T15:27:46.523-07:00Man Ke ManjeereA link sent over from Juhi Masi over in California. <br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/LsFha77l3RY&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/LsFha77l3RY&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />Every once in a while I find myself questioning myself because there's a feeling of being incomplete. And then come along reminders like the video above that show me why I need to rely on myself completely first.<br /><br />I hope you enjoy the video.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-52269912187892832702008-10-16T05:25:00.001-07:002008-10-16T05:25:36.311-07:00LostOf all the things that could have changed<br />on the day that you woke up<br />and stumbled out into the fog,<br /><br />when you felt your way through the mist<br />and found the grit of the world against your fingers<br /><br />you fell against the walls, blinded,<br />and found no passage through the changing surface,<br /><br />when you thought you had found<br />a glimmer of light<br />to bring back with you from the mist,<br /><br />you turned around into the fog<br />and brought the darkness home.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-17843277469030288732008-10-10T17:14:00.000-07:002008-10-12T07:21:13.116-07:00WanderlustI have spent my life<br />spinning on my heels<br /><br />from door to doorway,<br />from life to life<br /><br />from desert to ocean,<br />from heart to mind;<br /><br />And dancing on the tree tops with the breeze<br />I know if I spin fast enough<br />The dust will not settle on me.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-8288431287716359222008-10-02T20:12:00.000-07:002008-10-02T20:16:29.078-07:005 FriendsGo Vote. Seriously.<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/VhDRVKDcXQo&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/VhDRVKDcXQo&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-22539155804164400502008-10-02T13:33:00.000-07:002008-10-02T13:35:36.280-07:00Iraqis........teaching <a href="http://aliveinbaghdad.org/2008/09/29/iraqis-teach-against-the-odds/">against all odds</a>. Video link from <a href="http://www.aliveinbaghdad.org/">Alive in Baghdad</a>.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-53599308945869761332008-10-01T03:25:00.000-07:002008-10-01T03:28:14.277-07:004 am Text PoetryI woke up entirely too early this morning. I have a poem to show for it. My day might just be complete even before it begins. I'm breaking rules.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dawn Breaking</span><br /><br />today, i watched the dawn break through a rip in the sky, and thought about the leaves turning color, falling with a soft scrape, tearing slowly, speaking last words at their brightest in life, and i saw myself turning as they did and saw myself playing in the puddles by the trees, not wanting to turn to brown before i had lived.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-51414797066703019182008-09-18T05:02:00.001-07:002008-09-18T05:47:56.760-07:00My poem from Wordle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5VjHSuaofegMt_s8xb8zAtuH-us_0_RqhMCtphyZvoQxzby5t9kAma30rkTsluP6o7S66Qv7AvVI0I8kHkT8qEnuPEkTmTdUwFpkuAOhPfq4o7nvAalNSYhwnHLZSzyZupmCUoQ/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5VjHSuaofegMt_s8xb8zAtuH-us_0_RqhMCtphyZvoQxzby5t9kAma30rkTsluP6o7S66Qv7AvVI0I8kHkT8qEnuPEkTmTdUwFpkuAOhPfq4o7nvAalNSYhwnHLZSzyZupmCUoQ/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247342220080841890" border="0" /></a>nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-70231895150135911402008-09-18T05:02:00.000-07:002008-09-18T05:03:59.079-07:00Feelin' GoodFrom Juhi Masi, over in Los Angeles.<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/oXKpN4oUqcU&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/oXKpN4oUqcU&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-43136026854459733272008-09-17T05:36:00.000-07:002008-09-17T05:37:31.284-07:00Fighting with GhostsWhy do memories linger<br />like shadows, or a fog, rather?<br />Thick and opaque<br />and soft to the touch<br />but quickly becoming<br />wisps of air when I try<br />to hold them?<br /><br />They're almost invisible, you know.<br /><br />Almost without texture,<br />but still somehow abrasive.<br />And always dense. Always<br />around. Never lifting or fading to let the light in.<br /><br />They linger like you do,<br />in the creases of my couch,<br />or in the folds of my sheets.<br /><br />You linger still in the warmth<br />of the dying fire<br />and in my cold fingers<br />wrapped around a cup of coffee.<br /><br />Why, tell me, do you linger?<br /><br />When you know I cannot live<br />on memories alone.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-51327408567207686912008-09-14T17:51:00.000-07:002008-09-14T17:53:49.446-07:00Cabin FeverI've been stuck at home for the past four days because I have the flu. Or rather, the flu has me. I'll spare you the gory details of survival, but I have acquainted myself very well with all the walls in my house. So I wrote a poem to commemorate this occasion. I call it Cabin Fever.<br /><br />Cabin Fever<br /><br />I spend my days<br />smoothing out wrinkles<br />from the creases in my sofa<br />or tightening the corners of my bed sheets<br />when all I really want<br />is a wooden desk with drawers<br />that can hold my life in them.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-36600733797527310102008-09-14T16:21:00.000-07:002008-09-14T16:23:39.601-07:00More Lies?I can't do this on my academic blog, but this one belongs to me. Have a look.<div><br /></div><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/IH0xzsogzAk&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/IH0xzsogzAk&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-81102590483582272512008-08-21T12:33:00.000-07:002008-08-21T12:34:35.791-07:00My Sorceressand sitting by the edge of the cliff<br />where the waves lapped against the shore<br />she turned to the rising sun bathing the sky<br />in glows of pink, breathing in the world with the ocean;<br />and then she leaned over and whispered<br />"let's make music together"nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-28809735649869916032008-08-11T19:03:00.001-07:002008-08-11T19:14:57.857-07:00The Story of a PebbleOne of the earliest pieces of advice I had received regarding writing was to pick up a rock or a pebble, imagine the life it would have had and write down its story. I'm really not a romantic writer, so I don't much look for meaning in rocks and pebbles, but when the objective is to write one poem everyday, a writing exercise is a good way to make myself think.<div><br /></div><div>Pebbles live at our feet, die at our feet and get carried away with the waves at the beach..right at our feet. Who would have thought that a deeper philosophy would have guided a poem about, well, rocks. Here's the latest. </div><div><br /></div><div>In another stream of thought, I think my latest rebellion against rhyming and structure have resolved to an e e cummings' mode of expression. Very little punctuation. But, like the man said, you have to know the rules to be able to break them. </div><div><br /></div><div>here we go</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">the story of a pebble</span></div><div><br /></div><div>you know me.</div><div><br /></div><div>you've kicked me across the walk to not rip your shoe</div><div>you've thrown me across puddles to see how high i could jump</div><div>you've seen me carried away in grains with waves</div><div>reduced from rock to pebble</div><div>facing the wind, and falling to ground,</div><div>from shades of gray to withering yellow with age.</div><div><br /></div><div>you've met me many times.</div><div><br /></div><div>i remind you of who you are somedays, because</div><div>i am, like you, stuck in my body to grow old.</div><div><br /></div>nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-64214382599385936632008-08-09T08:14:00.000-07:002008-08-11T19:15:35.740-07:00You and IMy newest coherent poem.<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">You and I</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Do you remember how</div><div>the rain would fall</div><div>in braids and ribbons,</div><div>like a lattice, beckoning romance?</div><div><br /></div><div>We would have played,</div><div>you and I,</div><div>our faces wet, our faces smiling,</div><div>us, letting the drops of rain</div><div>fall between our fingers;</div><div><br /></div><div>The water would have fallen into puddles,</div><div>calling me to jump in and walk back</div><div>to the playground with you,</div><div>to be like little children, just being,</div><div>and splashing water on each other with our feet</div><div><br /></div><div>we would let the raindrops beat music on our backs,</div><div>let them awaken the earth,</div><div>and in the fragrant midst of lilacs</div><div><br /></div><div>we would have danced</div><div><br /></div><div>you and i.</div>nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-75669592514792480532008-07-20T19:16:00.000-07:002008-07-20T19:21:39.127-07:00Lost for Words?Yeah. It happens. I'm a fake -- I fully admit it. For someone who supposedly teaches writing and wears her love for writing and the written word on her sleeve, I haven't written a decent word since the summer of 07. I've dreamt about compiling my own poetry chapbook, been to poetry readings, wanted to mingle with the funky artistic circuit in Connecticut, and then I've gone ahead and procrastinated myself to death and back again.<div><br /></div><div>I miss blogging and networking with my long lost online community. I miss scribbling hen tracks on napkins and making tangible poems out of them. Most of all, I miss pouring my mind out right here, at my old stomping grounds.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hopefully, this time, I mean it and I'll stay. Until then, I'm drafting and revising and hiding my head in shame. </div>nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-64325182560790067612007-11-05T09:50:00.000-08:002007-11-05T09:59:12.068-08:00Identities and AbuseI tend to get hung up on identities. A lot. Being a woman of Asian descent, I see the inequalities between genders become more pronounced because every incident hits home. Heck, most incidents even start at home. My parents are by no means control freaks (well, at least my mother isn’t), but I’ve fought my fair share of battles as a teenager, and even as a 20-something, to assert my independence and assumption of responsibility.<br /><br />Sample conversation with my father:<br /><em></em><br /><em>“You can’t talk to boys.”<br />“Why not?”<br />“Because I said so.”<br /><br /></em><em></em>Oh no you didn’t. I’m very proud of myself. I have never been able to tolerate unjustified authority and I still don’t, regardless of the relationship. I ended my curfew the day I hit 21, I took over my own bills and even some of the family’s at 18 and I put myself through college with a 3.8 graduating GPA. I’m sorry – telling me I’m not a responsible adult and that I “don’t know any better” just don’t fly.<br /><br />My independence is a part of my identity. Losing a sense of who I am is my second greatest fear. Being alone is the first. But identities are molded by the people in our lives, who can or cannot be extremely abusive. Physically, mentally, verbally, emotionally and even sexually. Especially sexually.<br /><br />Where do the lines begin and end to qualify oppression and abuse? Where should they? When is enforced authority because of a role in life too much authority? I’ve seen men in my family being allowed to get away with being the control freaks that they are simply because they’re the husbands. They’re raised to believe that being born as men affords them the right to make decisions for the women and children in their lives. From deciding where their wives and daughters will work to whom they can talk to, to what they can or cannot wear and even right down to what they’re allowed to eat or drink.<br /><br />Can’t look at another man. Can’t step out of the house after dark. Can’t have people over for tea. Can’t dress a certain way because that’s against the family rules. <em>Rules???</em> Why does a healthy, active, contributing member of society need fucking rules to live in her own home??? Just because she’s married?<br /><br />For anyone who might reading this post and thinking that it’s easy for me to talk about the domestic abuse in families without understanding the social structure, you’re wrong. I’ve seen plenty of these “valid” inequities in my own family and in my own home. My father no longer speaks to me because he cannot control me or my decisions. I don’t allow him to. Some friends of mine tell me it’s easier said than done to put your foot down. No it’s not. I’ve had a lifetime of stomping my feet and it still isn’t easy for me. I just can’t fathom handing over my entire life to a ridiculous patriarch, father or husband. The abuse that the women in my family have survived may not be as violently extreme, but emotional scars usually don't heal after the physical scars have.<br /><br />The trigger for this post is a movie I just watched. It’s called <a href="http://www.provokedthemovie.com/">Provoked</a> and it stars Aishwarya Rai in the role of Kiranjit Ahluwahlia, an Indian woman who had been repeatedly abused by her husband. The movie seems extreme, but shock was more rude when the credits said that the movie was based on a true story. The related article that I found online is <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/crime/article/0,,2049523,00.html">here</a>.<br /><br />According to the article,<br /><blockquote>Following a campaign, led by SBS, Ahluwalia's conviction was quashed on<br />appeal in 1992. The court accepted some new evidence - that she had not been<br />aware she could plead guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished<br />responsibility, and that she had been suffering from severe depression when<br />she killed her husband [...] Ahluwalia's successful appeal against her<br />murder conviction set a historic precedent - that women who kill as a result<br />of severe domestic violence should not be treated as cold-blooded murderers.</blockquote><br />I’m fucking pissed.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-76623202823904501892007-10-17T14:49:00.000-07:002007-10-17T14:50:09.015-07:00Teaching UpdateI <span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;color:#000000;"> marvel at people, who despite having absolutely no time to spare, can still find time to keep writing, ruminating and posting their thoughts everywhere between blogs, computer screens and maybe even scribble a word or two. When the semester began, I had grandiose dreams of sitting down at my computer at the end of every week and updating the world on my discoveries as a novice teacher. Hah! I say to myself. Such naiveté. Apparently, I’m in denial about the fact that I need sleep and that I can’t function without it. Another trait I envy in others. But I’ll trade a state of wordlessness for a few more years of kicking and screaming so I can go out with a bang.</span> <p class="EC_MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;color:#000000;">The teaching/shadowing is going really well. Stepping into a classroom is like crossing the threshold into a parallel universe. The students are creative, bursting with energy, and despite all outward appearances, honestly eager to learn. This just might be my own misconception, but I think I can manage to live with rose colored glasses for a while. We’ve spent a significant portion of the semester trying to instill a penchant for detailed writing. The class began with the token “Who am I?” paper, and surprisingly, the details were few and far between. I would think that 18-somethings would offer up their lives much more willingly than adults would. Not so much. Getting them to write with more details is like pulling teeth.<br /><br />Gender differences are emerging strongly as well. The girls notice details and the boys notice objects. Slight observation when we passed around glossy advertisements and asked them to describe what they saw. From the women, I heard about colors, composition, theme, message and even audience. From the men, I heard about readily noticeable objects and functionality. When they were asked to bring in advertisements to class, they picked decidedly masculine themes – cars, sports, guns and game hunting. Hmm. As a copy editor at a campus newspaper, I’ve trained myself to not ascribe to sweeping generalizations, but I can see how they take root. Even so, my guess is that not treating every student the same way is no less than a learned art.<br /><br />Speaking of audiences, the concept of writing catered to an audience is beginning to take root, but it’s a good bit of an uphill struggle. I think nearly ever student who was asked to imagine the audience wrote down “anyone willing to read about me.”<br /><br />However, the most challenging hurdle I see myself jumping over is enforcing decorum and getting a grip on classroom management. I don’t see myself being militant, but gaining and keeping control of my classroom seems to be one of the major factors in getting the students to focus. Also, I have to keep biting my tongue to stop myself from calling the students “kids.” I think it’s because it hasn’t been that long since I’ve graduated and I remember how condescending being called a “kid” would sound coming from one of the professors. So far so good – I think I’m a little closer to finding home again. Hmmm…</span></p>nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-82334578509552030432007-09-04T17:23:00.000-07:002007-09-04T18:16:31.827-07:00Pedagogy? Me?Hell yes! At the very beginning of this summer, I was approached by a friend at <a href="http://www.tunxis.commnet.edu/">Tunxis Community College</a> with an offer to teach Introduction to Composition. To say that I was positively thrilled would be a heavy understatement. I remember shrieking with joy, jumping on my living room couch and running around the house like a mad woman. Oh, and I also did a little happy chicken dance. And they say teachers are supposed to be mature.<br /><br />At this point, I have to say that wanting to take ownership of my own classroom has been a dream of mine since I first took Introduction to Literature. Add to that courses like British Literature, Writing of Poetry, Literary Criticism and Women in Art, and its a sure fire formula for a college teacher wannabe. People have asked me numerous times why I wouldn't just work towards my teaching certification and make life easier for myself. A) Because I'm a sucker for punishment - why stop at a teaching certification when there are multiple, more challenging and positively blood sucking degrees to be earned just floating about out there? Also, B) I have trouble accepting inane rules and regulations, and the state board is nothing if not a ball of red tape. Although, I think I happily ignore the red tape involved in higher ed, only because I want to be there, <span style="font-style: italic;">so badly</span>. ( I know I'm going to design a course around Post Colonial Literary Criticism some day. I just <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> it).<br /><br />I should get to the point. Thrilled as I was at the prospect of teaching my own course this Fall, there's something to be said for actual classroom experience, which sadly, I have none of, especially from the other side of the desk. So, I've decided to shadow the English department at Tunxis this semester before I fly solo in the Spring, and today was my very first day! I've had a bag full of wonderful teachers, and I've met most of them at lil' ol Tunxis, a college working very hard to be more than a nondescript dot on the higher ed map of CT.<br /><br />I don't think the complete impact of the fact that I was about to begin teaching hit me until I started driving towards the campus this afternoon. Talk about being torn by mixed emotions. I didn't think it was possible to feel joy, excitement, anticipation, anguish, nervousness and fear all at the same time. Walking on to campus felt strangely ethereal as well. Well, without the smoke and mirrors though. The fact that I was walking up to the classroom as a potential faculty member was a tad bit more than overwhelming. Faculty? Me?<br /><br />Over time, many faculty and staff members at Tunxis have become good and close friends, but please bear in mind, I've long idolized every person I've taken a class with at this school. And I haven't even added my teachers at Seton Hill to this mix yet. Standing by the courtyard this afternoon while I waited for the class to begin, my only thought was, "all my teachers are now going to be my colleagues."<br /><br />And then I had to slap myself on the wrist. There's no way I could ever be in the same league as the teachers at Tunxis. I can see myself carving out my own niche in time, but some people will always be in a much higher league of their own. And yet, there's something to be said for the all the people who have unconditional faith in me and my ability to succeed. Not one person I came across today said anything that could have been less than encouraging. For all my nervousness and anxiety, there were people cheering on from the sidelines telling me I'd be great.<br /><br />And then came the classroom. And the students. And the prospect of talking about writing, and writing well. The "nooks and crannies," the attention to detail, the ability to articulate, to ascribe a method to the madness of floating thoughts, a way to weave in and out of stories that shape writing, and at the most basic level, the need to communicate and express the self. Or an assignment. Whichever comes first. Grasping the opportunity to influence young minds. Or at least teaching them how to "write good."<br /><br />This was the moment when every bit of the anxiety washed away. I've decided that I'll take whatever comes my way. Whatever, however, in whichever shape, size or form. From grading to meetings to department reports and every little task in between - I'll do it all and I'll love it all. I've come a long way from first learning how to write, to learning how to write well, to tutoring fellow students, and now, I have an honest shot at applying all that I've learned and more. Much, much more.<br /><br />My Epiphany for the day? I'm going to leave the door open to allow teaching to become the passion and drive I've been searching for, for so long. I absolutely, positively, desperately, ridiculously want teaching to be my "It." I want teaching to be more than a job. I want it to be more than a living. I'd like it to be a calling that wakes me up every morning, filled with boundless energy, impatient to tackle the day ahead of me because it'll come packed full of surprises. Who knows? In another year or two, I just might be applying for a Fulbright.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span></span></span></span>nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-62260666022057755392007-09-01T00:16:00.000-07:002007-09-01T00:23:08.951-07:00Cormac McCarthyI've just begun journeying on <a href="http://www.randomhouse.com/kvpa/cormacmccarthy/">The Road</a> with Cormac McCarthy, decidedly one of my favorite authors. There's a touch of the sublime here. A deep force that somehow manages to rise above the ground an assume an ethereal presence.<br /><br /><blockquote>The ashes of the late world carried on the bleak and temporal winds to and fro in the void. Carried forth and scattered and carried forth again. Everything uncoupled from its shoring. Unsupported in the ashed air. Sustained by a breath, trembling and brief. If only my heart were stone.<br /></blockquote><br />If only I were able to write like this. And this is just page 11. There's an entire book ahead of me.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35000994.post-75162518733371008872007-08-30T17:35:00.000-07:002007-08-30T18:15:37.531-07:00Endless Summers?Summer is quite possibly the most sought after season that nature could have provided us with, what with its promise of lush green grass, picnics in the park, open air jazz concerts and June bugs. Okay, so maybe the June bugs are a bit unnecessary, but I happen to be an avid worshiper of shiny. And at the same time, it is also perhaps the most elusive and short lived season ever thrown around for the sole purpose of tantalizing its followers.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Come, play with me" </span>it beckons. <span style="font-style: italic;">"We'll make wonderful memories together."</span><br /><br />Bare faced lie.<br /><br />I think as I get older, its texture becomes more and more slippery. Much like the fish people spend hours knee deep in murky water with squirmy bugs for. If summer were a vegetable, I think I'd spend endless hours grilling. I honestly yearn for days that try and break the 85 degree mark. It's really wishful thinking, because locked up in jolly old New England here, we really only are privy to two seasons. Cold and colder. Winter is a nine month long visitor, and I dread its arrival like the crotchety old aunt who comes visiting with knitting needles in tow, not to knit with, but to poke me in the eye. Needless to say, it very quickly outlives its welcome.<br /><br />Have you ever noticed how summers in books seem to span the lengths of bibles? Epic summers, these characters have. Sometimes I wish I were Scout from To Kill a Mockingbird, with an epic, adventure filled summer that ran on forever and ever. I certainly do have an epic summer tucked away with my name on it, but I think it carries the stories of my friends more than it does mine. But that's a post for later. I have no story. None. I wake up in the morning and I go to work, and when I come back home, I head out for long walks to try and savor every last bit of the warm weather that Connecticut is blessed with, and then I come back home to read and fall asleep. No story. No adventure. No magical lessons to be learned from Boo Radley or Atticus. Not even an annoying random neighbor to spare.<br /><br />Why is it that a nine year old's summer filled almost 400 pages and my combined summers won't even fill one? I'm a little jealous.nehahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007924662968640723noreply@blogger.com3