Fuming and Stirring the Pot

Some are maligning Josh Duggar. Rightfully, to be honest. He did a very bad thing that I think it’s reasonable to assume he knew was a very bad thing when he did it.

Others are maligning the media and public for outing him for his bad deeds ten years later because it re-victimizes the girls who were molested and have “moved on” since.

Here’s the thing. We don’t know whether Josh has rectified things—whether he still poses a risk to young children now as he did in 2006. I’m willing to believe that he is no longer a threat. He may very well have realized the awfulness of his deeds and made amends and cleared his brain from such evil thoughts.

He also may very well have made personal amends with the young women affected by his terrible acts. I certainly hope he has. They deserve his apology, at a minimum. They deserve more than that, but an apology would at least go some ways to righting the wrongs done to them.

But what I’m frustrated by is people who argue that this should not have come out these years later because it’s re-victimizing the young women. As if they’ve forgotten what happened. Forgiveness is a powerful thing—they may have been capable of forgiving Josh Duggar. But I am betting they did not forget. And nor should we. We should not say, “Hey, they moved on, so no biggie.” You know why? Because forgetting isn’t a thing.

I have been on the receiving end of teenage boys’ sexual curiosity, and as a result, I’ve been on the wrong end of “let’s deal with this privately” on the adults’ side.  The wrong end is a land of self-blame, confusion, and distrust of men. I long ago forgave—the person wasn’t a terrible monster but a person who made a mistake. A mistake that led to a lot of long-term problems for me, yes, but not by that person’s intentions. I wish that person had been made to apologize to me so that I knew right away that I hadn’t done something wrong and that the adults didn’t blame me for being a bad person. I wish that nearly every day. But he wasn’t. And so here we are.

But to say that ten years later (for the Duggars) or nearly 30 years later (for me) that it was “behind” them or me is a fraud and a scam. To say that the media—or liberals or whoever—are trudging up something these girls had “forgotten” is bullshit. It’s never forgotten. It’s not the media that re-victimizes. It’s a culture that tells them it “wasn’t a big deal,” or “boys will be boys,” or “just forget it ever happened.” That we shouldn’t be talking about it. That it was just a mistake, don't make it a big deal.

It is a big deal. It is a huge, monstrous, giant big deal. I know too many other women who were in this very situation, like me and the Duggars, as girls. All of them were told the same message: “Just forget it.” “Just move on.” “Don’t make a huge deal of it.” And boys are left to carry on, making the same mistake because boys will be boys, they can just forget they ever did it, they can rest assured that their victims will forget it, too. Time will make it a distant memory.

It’s not distant. It’s not just a memory. It’s a thing. A real thing that lives in my daily life with me. And I’m guessing with the Duggars girls. Forgiveness is pretty easy. Forgetting is not. So yes, I think the outing of this event is reasonable. There are people using it for their own vindictiveness and petty reasons against the Duggars. Of course there are, and that may be problematic. But there are also people trying to rationalize it away by minimizing it and saying talking about it is worse than hiding it.

And to them, I say: you’re the bigger problem here. You’re the much bigger problem.

Self-Realization

I sit here thinking about some frustrating things that have happened recently, and it occurs to me that I've been seeing myself wrong. I always call myself a pessimist and a cynic. I assume the worst, don't expect good things so I'm pleasantly surprised when I'm wrong. 

That's the easy way to see me.

The truth is, I think, that it's all bull. I'm not a pessimist. I'm an optimist who uses pessimism to attempt (poorly) to shield herself. That's why I keep feeling hurt and dejected when people turn out not to be what I think, why I feel overwhelmed when bad prevails. A true pessimist wouldn't be affected by this. Would expect this.

So I sit here, festering on my surprise and disappointment in others and in the lot I have been handed in certain areas of my life. I thought, "Why are you surprised? You know people suck. What else would have happened?" But the real core me under it all still screams, "Because that's not the way it's supposed to be! I'm not supposed to have this kind of unhappiness. My friend wasn't supposed to die and I'm not supposed to be alone and abandoned for other people on a whim. I'm supposed to be happy. People are supposed to be kind."

So now I'm left confused, feeling like a stranger in my own head.

Touching Grief

Earlier this semester, I asked my students to attend a documentary on end-of-life issues called Consider the Conversation. The film outlines how our modern society steers clear of talking about death and our end-of-life issues. I asked my students to reflect on how families deal with grief and loss, and how they can better help their loved ones as they pass. I'm currently grading those papers.

2011 has been a year of saying goodbye. We just said goodbye to my maternal grandma in November, and I lost my very dear, and very vital friend, Amy, this summer. In both cases, it was hard to say goodbye to people who've so long been a part of my life. Grandma and Amy both passed in institutional care (grandma in the hospital after a brief infection, Amy in hospice after a long battle with cancer). The film discusses how we've gone from dying at home to dying in institutional care and what are the positives and negatives of both.

Grandma had her daughters at her side. Amy had her husband, children, sister, and father with her. Thank goodness. I'm so grateful for all of these special people for being there for such special and wonderful people, no matter that watching someone go is such a painful feeling. I, on the other hand, was not there for either. There's sorrow and gratitude in that. I'm not accustomed to watching people die, and I'm scared to. I've never actually seen it happen. That's how our culture tells us it should be: distant, abstract, done quietly in a room, away from regular life.

But while reading these papers by my students, I've been thinking a lot about the last time I did see Amy in the hospital in our hometown and how little I actually did. We knew what was happening. She'd been given days to weeks. She looked only a little like the Amy I grew up with. So thin, so weak, a whisper of a voice. And in my inexperience with death, I had no idea what to do. So I sat down and started to blather nonsense. She tried to respond as best she could, but she also slept a fair amount while I blathered. But then, she woke up and saw me. She looked at me, knowingly. And she extended her hand.

I hadn't thought to take it. I hadn't thought to touch her, to comfort her that way. Not until she asked. Of course, I took it then, and held it as tight as I thought I dared, feeling her delicate wedding band in my hand as it hung loosely on her thin fingers. I noticed the mother's ring she wore. I noticed the coolness of her skin. She squeezed back as best she could. We sat that way for some time, still talking, still being together as we'd been in years past, as we began our initiation into adulthood.

As I offer feedback to my students about our culture's hesitancy to touch death, to be near it, I realize just how much a part of our culture I am. How could I not have taken her hand of my own volition? Why couldn't I see she needed that, she, my very dearest of friends. The person who always knew what to do and say to me. How much that moment has taught me now that I've reflected on it. It's just like Amy to teach me something so profound with something so simple.

My only saving grace, the one thing that makes me not feel like a total heel, is that as I left and said what I knew was our last goodbye on earth, I asked if I could give her a kiss. She smiled and nodded yes. And then I kissed the forehead that held the brain that held so much of my soul and essence. So much of me and who I am meant to be, even when I couldn't see it for myself.

That was my last opportunity to give comfort to Amy, but I hope in future, I am able to learn that a more proactive approach toward reaching out and comforting is the very least our loved ones deserve. They need our touch more than we need our distance. Our fear of mortality is nothing to their fear of being abandoned in their time of need.

Losing Cleo

So, I am down to one grandparent. This terrifies me. My mom's mom died yesterday, and though she had suffered from dementia for some time, it was still hard to see her go from not quite all there to not at all here. She was a regular feature of my life, particularly in childhood when she and Grandpa would visit us in Sioux City or when we stayed at their house on weekends and holidays.

Grandma was the one who served me grape juice (a real treat!) in a tiny glass cup for Sunday breakfast to wash down my pancakes or eggs. She'd sit to my right (as I perched on the stool) as we ate. She's the one to made kringla that rivaled her mom's, and she'd bring or send home old ice cream buckets full of them when we'd see each other. She's the one who seemed quiet, but if you listened you could hear the wicked fast wit under the surface. Just enough to make you wonder what snark she kept under raps to keep up appearances. Just enough to know you could respect her brains as much as her cooking ability. She's the one who made our Christmas chili, kept her pop in the garage to keep it cool, and had more craft projects than you could count. I have a little pink cloth travel case that I keep my---girl stuff---in when I travel. I've had it since before I needed girl stuff.

This is a woman who's been part of my life. Even when she was increasingly lost in her own brain with dementia, we'd get these flashes of the old Grandma so we knew we still had her. She may have had the name of my dad and uncle mixed up, but she never lost the ability to return their teasing. She had lost her pristine, kept-up appearance toward the end, but she never lost her colorful clothing choices. Occasionally, she'd come out with a story about her past that was filled with details that were accurate, just before she returned to telling stories that made no sense. But however sporadic, we loved those moments of Grandma. They were enough to get by, but now we don't even have that.

Grandma is relieved of suffering and confusion. I rejoice in that. But I also wish for those old times of my quiet grandma in my house, sewing with mom, going shopping with us, doing her quiet laugh. Those have been memories only for years, but now they are Memories only. That's hard to swallow.

I was blessed with two amazing grandmas, more different than alike, but equally loved and valued for their own strengths. A girl can't ask for more than that, even though she might like to.

So it goes

One of the greatest authors of the 20th century is Kurt Vonnegut. That's perhaps not earth shattering information to the more literary among the world, but whatever. It's true. Vonnegut speaks to me because he so seamlessly merges cynicism and frustration with an underlying humor and almost-but-not-quite hope. It's a position I find myself in, and I appreciate someone who can articulate what I'm not clever enough to do myself.

In Slaughterhouse Five, Vonnegut writes a semi-fictional account of his time as German POW in WWII. He was in Dresden when the Allies bombed the city into oblivion, killing thousands of innocent people. Vonnegut was profoundly impacted by this, and it shows not in hostility but in wry observation toward both his allies and his enemies for creating such a situation.

The most famous line from the book is repeated throughout after Vonnegut describes particularly absurd, inhumane, and horrifying situations in the plot or about humanity more generally: "And so it goes."

"And so it goes." This simple sentence could follow the paragraphs that are Summer 2011. If I were writing my biography, I would write about the last two years, and the last few months most particularly, with plenty of "And so it goes." My best friend, Amy, who has always been the most loyal, compassionate and encouraging person outside my parents, lost her battle to cancer on July 5.

She fought for two years. She got clean remission reports, only to find more ravaging cancer a few months later. She would be encouraged, then collapse into despair. She would find hope only to have it pulled from under her feet. She was Optimism to my Pessimism, but in our last conversation she told me I had been right all along and my heart shattered. She had a wonderful husband--one of the best--and three delightful and sweet children. Everything to live for.

And so it goes.

I know for certain that Amy wants me to live the life she saw for me. I know she wants me to be happy, to feel joy, to embrace life. I want that, too. But I want that with her around. I want to tell her about all that. I want to be an old lady with her so we can laugh about all the dumb stuff we thought about life in our 30s. I don't want to see her only in dreams and in clouds, and I don't want to only hear her voice in emails and the wind and in the sounds of cicadas that remind me of her farm.

And so it goes.

I know that life is always a gamble. I know that none of us have control over our time of death. I know cancer has struck many other wonderful people who also lost their battles. I know some of them. I know that it's better to live 34 powerful and engaged years than 100 miserable or careless ones. I know that I should be grateful I had the chance to grow up with her, to become an adult with her. But that's not enough.

And so it goes.

And so I go. Without my sister friend. Without my email inbox filled with loving shoves and pointed observations and uncomfortable insights whose validities are undeniable. I go on, with the wind, the cicadas, the clouds, and the dreams. I grow older with an empty chair, and an empty spot in my heart. With a silence that will never again be filled with her voice.

It shouldn't go like this.

So it begins

Next week marks the beginning of my sixth semester as a professor. Below are some funny things that have happened in my classroom over the years both at my current university and as a TA in grad school.

1) Student spelling errors are always a treat, especially when MS Word either doesn't catch the mistake or corrects inappropriately. I often have students analyze examples from the media and their real lives to be sure they connect course material with their lived experiences. Once, a young lady was applying a friendship theory to Lucy and Ethel from I Love Lucy. She meant to say that Lucy would always have her Ethel to rely on, but what she wrote was, "Of course, Lucy would always have her ether." A very different kind of dependence.

2) I assigned people into pairs to work on a small in-class discussion. That day there was an odd number of students present, so I looked at the pair the last extra person was sitting nearest and said, "Why don't you all just have a three-way?"  The whole room looked at me with wide eyes until it sank in what I said. As it dawned on me, I added, "Well. That didn't come out well, did it?"  They all laughed, we moved on, and I learned to be more careful in how I speak. I also learned early on it's better to be laughed with than at. They respect you more if you can laugh at yourself.

3) A student was presenting on the issue of gay and lesbian teachers and parental fears of their children being "indoctrinated." Only she said, "Parents are afraid gay and lesbian teachers will rub off on their children." I am not a mature person, but it didn't help that a few of the other students giggled, too. The student who said it was very smart and kind, and she took it in stride. But I had a hard time controlling myself for awhile.

4) I was teaching a freshman public speaking class early on in my time at my current school. I had a little metal tin that I passed around with numbers so that they were randomly assigned a date and order for giving their speeches. The first time I did this during the semester, I explained the process and then started walking around for them to draw their number. I got to one girl, who apparently hadn't been paying attention to my instructions. I put the metal tin in front of her, and she got a very sheepish look on her face as she reached into her mouth for her gum. She thought I was busting her for gum in the classroom. So cute. I said, "No. You can have gum. That's okay. I just need you to draw a number for your speech." Then she turned from sheepish to embarrassed.

5) In another speech class, a student was clearly wildly under-prepared for his speech on soccer. He was nervous and fidgety the whole time. He got to the part on the importance of proper handling of balls, which would be hard to say under the best of circumstances when you're an 18-year-old boy (or an immature teacher). Under these less ideal circumstances, even harder. He paused. Everyone looked up. He smirked. Then he snickered. Then he desperately fought to regain his composure. Then I had to look down and shake quietly with laughter while he continued on.

I sometimes feel overwhelmed by my job, and the responsibility, and the students who just don't care. But really. How amazing is it all, really? There are lots of funny, fascinating, and educational opportunities even for teachers. So, I will go on, head into this semester hoping for more funny than frustrating.

The Persistence of Violence

Excuse me while I jump on the bandwagon here.

The situation in Tuscon is a tragedy, and now we have to wait to figure out what exactly went on and why this person chose to harm a Congressperson. What I won't be a part of, in the angst, is an overly simplified partisan attack on speech.

On one hand, I absolutely understand the concern being hoisted on the Sarah Palin target ad, the call to violent revolution by the Tea Partiers, the Nevada politician's call for a "second amendment solution," the Glenn Beck wild conspiracy, the rage-filled response to the health care bill last year, the insinuation that Obama is a Muslim/not a citizen/Hitler. Currently, it seems that the Far Right is focused on a self-righteous crusade using violent and angry rhetoric. All of those things have consequences, and that consequence may be that it pushes already imbalanced people over the edge. It doesn't make the Conservatives responsible directly, but it does give them secondary responsibility for their words and actions.

BUT.

On the other hand, there's no way that I (as a more liberal leaning person) can allow the pundits on my side of the aisle to wash their hands of the whole thing. Keith Olbermann (who annoys the holy bejeezus out of me) calls people "The Worst Person in the World" on every show. Bill Maher antagonizes the Right with spiteful words and a condescending air. I hear liberal friends and pundits too readily dismiss Conservatives and Christians as mouth-breathing hate mongers. None of these, in my opinion, rise to the level of hate I see and hear from the Glenn Becks and Rush Limbaugh's of the world, but they certainly aren't blameless or innocent. Just as above, these comments don't mean liberals have direct responsibility for the actions of people like yesterday's shooter...but, again, it does give them some secondary responsibility.

Rumors surrounding yesterday's assassin have him reading the left-wing The Communist Manifesto as well as the right-wing Mein Kampf. Clearly this guy isn't the simple "mouth-breathing" conservative that some have insinuated he is. Regardless, that doesn't mean the current political rhetoric of violence and hate haven't impacted his already screwed up mind. Because what really matters here is that we've created a partisan divide that dehumanizes the opposition, whichever side you're on. Different opinions are too often seen as fundamental flaws, implications of an evil or ill-intentioned heart, as reason to hate. We're all guilty of buying into this, myself included, I admit. A side effect of this is that we also tend to see ceding a point as weakness, because it implies that we might agree with something evil or vile. When we paint the opposition as evil or the enemy, we paint ourselves into a very dangerous, very explosive corner. We eliminate our ability to reason and find consensus and unity...on anything.

And there's more! Beyond the political rhetoric, we live in a culture that values and prizes violence, and to think that has no effect on society is foolish. Our movie rating system is quick to slap an R on a movie with a sex scene or a few too many "f words," but more lenient when it comes to torture, explosions, gunfire, and physical assault. Our network television shows have to limit their vocabulary and sex scenes, but I've seen terrible and deeply offensive acts of violence on nearly every night that I've flipped through. Law enforcement shows, hospital shows, action dramas--all of them are free to show blood, murder, and attacks.  Similarly, our video games are now based on murdering "the bad guys," whoever that might be. Our music often glorifies violent acts, too.

Like the political rhetoric, none of these media portrayals of violence, or their creators and distributors, are directly responsible for the violent acts that occur in our society. But, once more, they bear some indirect responsibility through their glorification of violence and the sheer brutality that an imbalanced person might glom onto.

As a society, we need to stop seeing acts of violence like yesterday's attack as exceptions to the rule. We can no longer afford to write them off as isolated incidents of crazy or unstable persons. We are creating monsters through the violent and demeaning undertones of the discourses we use and surround ourselves with. We are a poisoned culture. We are a particularly violent society. And the sooner we connect the dots between our words/entertainment and the violence that we see on the news, the sooner we can work toward reducing these non-isolated events. We're all guilty.

Academic Me

I taught a course in the fall on the idea that what we know to be true and real is a product of our time and place. What we taken for granted about ourselves, and the world in which we swim, is a product of our upbringing, our experiences, our cultural norms and rules. The world isn't made up of Truth, some universal, mandated Has To Be This Way reality. Instead it is made up of the truths of the moment and the truths of the prior moments.

I teach my students that who they are has some grounding in their genetics and psychology, but that our enactment of our psychological makeup is a product of how those impulses have been cultivated through our relationships and interactions in a world of rules and norms. For example, I believe I am genetically predisposed to my high levels of anxiety...there's a thread in the family that's hard to ignore. However, because I live in 2011, that's seen as just part of who I am. If I had lived in 1911 or 1811, who knows? As a woman, I might have been seen as hysterical with the common curse of feminine frailty and emotional weakness. As a result, back then I would never have been able to channel an of that anxious energy into education or other diversions. I might have become more recluse, more frail and pitiable because society told me that is who I was and that was what I deserve. I would have been Dena, but a very different Dena--the same genetics with a very different lived experience.

Anyway, what this leads to is that I've been thinking about my own hypocrisy. What I teach my students is that there is no Truth, no Inevitable. We live in a culture, we shape our own and others' lived experience through our interactions. Yet, in my own mind, I am somehow forever doomed to unhappiness. I am a failure...no. I am a Failure. I am an unchangeable force of pessimism. It's just Who I Am.

But how can that be when I'm such an advocate for the lack of such a Truth? I can point, of course, to the fact that every time I've tried to be more positive I fail and go right back to pessimism and unhappiness. But do those failures to overcome signify a Truth of an inevitable future of unhappiness? I also point to the fact that a majority of my daily interactions in my relationships are supportive and should lead me to a positive self-image, but here I am otherwise. In my head, this is proof of the Conclusive Evidence of my own permanent rut.

But can I really be an honest professor, can I really teach my students about the social construction of realities, when I don't practice this in my daily life? How can I become a more honest professor by taking on my philosophy to conquer my own demons? My tendency is always to use theory and philosophy to think through my opinions and understanding of the world. Can I do the same to think through myself and my understanding of myself? Can I do a research study on myself? Review the "literature" on my own mental health, gather the data of my experiences, analyze it within a theoretical--social constructionist--framework and come to some improved understanding through careful analysis?

Is the answer to my problem the research process? And further, can I get tenure on that?

Aquifer

There's hope for me. It's small. It's fleeting, but it's there.

Yesterday I had a meeting that I was dreading, and I knew I was the cause of dread for another person at the meeting. I hate confrontation most of the time (Delta Airlines being an exception to the rule), but being an adult and a professional means that I sometimes have to have difficult conversations. Yesterday was definitely in that category. I'm blessed to have a department chair who is my total advocate and always goes beyond the call of duty to help me.

So, as I was sitting in my office beforehand, I was experiencing that old heart racing, stomach churning, shaking feeling. And the thought flew through my head and onto my Facebook status before I even had time to fully reflect on it: "So far in my life, I have got through everything that has seemed overwhelming and scary. This day will be no different."

What was that? Optimism? Is there some aquifer of positivity that lives way down deep in the core of me, waiting to be discovered? Given my general emotional state right now, that was profoundly unexpected, but it really worked. I felt my heart rate slow and my shaking reduce. I went into the meeting still nervous, but with an overall calmer feeling than I expected. When the meeting began, I opened it with (I think) grace and a sense of ease. And it all went fine. I got through it, just as unexpectedly predicted. 

So there you go. I may not be a lost cause after all.

Happy New Year?

When I watch old movies or see old pictures, I always try to figure out when the people would have been born and who in my family would have been their age, or alternatively how old my family members would have been when the movie was filmed or photo taken. I like to connect distant and abstract things with more tangible and concrete things in my life, and this is one way of doing that. I once was watching an old movie with a guy I was dating and mentioned that my dad would have been two or three when the movie came out. The guy thought it was really weird that I would think that. That's when I first suspected we might not be compatible. Turns out I was right, but that's beside the point.

What really gets me in a twist, though, is knowing that someday people might do that with pictures of me. They'll think, "Man, this old lady was born in 1977. I can't imagine." What makes it all worse is that I have this lingering fear that they'll find my old pictures in some dusty old antique shop in a box of old pictures that no one wanted. Because, honestly, who would want photos of Old Spinster Dena after I'm gone? I'm probably going to be in some random person's decoupage project of antique photos.

Basically, then, whenever I start down this mental path it turns into that existential angst and a question of what is the damned point of anything? Why fight for survival when it's all so temporary anyway, and when no one will care that we lived in another 70 years. No one will know that there was a Dena Huisman who taught at a university in Wisconsin unless they happen across a picture or an old computer file with my name on it.  I'll just be another of the millions of anonymous passers-by in video footage, another person who happened to live a long time ago and who happened to have walked in the path of a camera.

Just another bit of historical ephemera.

So, you know. Happy 2011.

Mediocrity

This semester has been a long one. I've had more ups and downs than typical, but I don't know whether that's me or the semester. Personally, I've been struggling to stay on top of the emotional game. I've had several really high moments, but also some of the lower moments of my life, too. I've been rewarded with some of the best and most dedicated students....and...some woefully undedicated ones.

I am a nerd, admittedly. I enjoyed school all the way through, and I still am wildly crazy about learning new things and thinking. I love being intellectually challenged by friends and family as well as by books and movies. Sometimes I think people see me as too argumentative or forceful in my opinions, but it's not because I want to push my thoughts on others. It's because I want to be pushed and prodded to be clear in my own views. I want to be sure I'm thinking with all the views possible in my toolbox, you know? I don't want to be guilty of formulating opinions that are easy or based on half the available information.

So it is a mystery to me why others aren't the same way. Maybe that's arrogant, assuming the world should be like me, but I don't think so. It seems like the most common and powerful thing in the world to be curious, to try to learn, to take advantage of every opportunity to be better, smarter, more informed. I don't see this as necessarily tied to formal education, though I'm obviously a big proponent of that, given my job. :)  Some of the smartest, best informed people I know have little to no college experience. They just engage in the world and its available information.

This semester, I have seen much more disinterest and lack of effort than ever before in my students. I still have a lot of great ones who do try, but it's harder to keep focused on them when I'm seeing so many more problems. Of course, it's frustrating to grade mediocre work, but that's nothing. The real disheartening thing isn't giving out low grades, it's the lack of caring, the lack of trying, and the lack of desire to learn. It breaks my heart, and I fear if it continues it will make me unable to continue in my job. I can only emotionally handle so much of it.

If you have kids, encourage their curiosity. Build into them a sense of passion for figuring things out, for working hard, for trying. If you're an adult, build into your life more passion for those same things. America is falling behind the rest of the world in intelligence, education, and life satisfaction. These things are not unconnected, but they are avoidable if we stop accepting and rewarding mediocrity.

Lasting Impressions

I remember walking past Mitch and Sue, my Sunday School teachers, on Christmas Eve service in about 4th grade. I was a shy kid, and I often preferred adult company to kids. I liked to be treated like a grown up and to have conversations. Mitch and Sue, a couple I'm guessing in their mid to late 20s, were pros at this. And when they smiled and waved at me that Christmas Eve, I remember being so pleased. They were grown-ups who were my friends.

The church we went to until I was 11 wasn't particularly small, but there were very few kids my age and the only other girl was a snooty snoot from the wealthy kids' school. Most of the other kids were hit or miss on attendance, but the Huisman family was not. Unless visiting relatives, we were there every Sunday. That meant, as often as not, I was the only kid who showed up for Sunday School.

Mitch and Sue were always there waiting for me, and then we waited together to see if another kid would show up. They would ask me about school, what I was learning, what I was reading. They were sooo cool.

One time when no one else showed up, they invited me to go to Mr. Donut, a chain donut shop, with them. I must have asked my parents for permission, but I don't remember. I only remember sitting in the back seat of their car, talking about my school as we passed it and how I got to walk home by myself. Then I remember sitting at a stool at the counter of the Mr. Donut. I got to pick out my favorite: a cake donut covered in a hard frosting shell and stuck on a stick. I preferred mine with pink frosting and sprinkles, connoisseur that I was.

And there we sat. Just me and my buddies, Mitch and Sue, shooting the breeze and having a donut at the counter on our stools. Like grown ups.

One could probably argue that this wasn't the best use of church time. Other Sunday School teachers I had certainly were more likely to stay on lesson plan and to force me to memorize my Bible verses. But what Mitch and Sue gave me as Sunday School teachers was less about the intricacies of the Gospels and more about the lived expectations embedded in the messages of the Gospels. Be good to others, even small others. Be gentle and loving and respectful. Be generous with your time...and your donut money.

Truth is, I couldn't tell you the names of any of my more structured Sunday School teachers, save one (Fern Swanson, bless her heart). Mitch and Sue are really the only ones who made a lasting impact because they valued me as a person and loved me as their Sunday School student. They were excited to see me at Christmas Eve and showed me with that friendly smile and wave as I passed, which is more than any other teacher had ever done, but all just like Jesus would do.

But I bet Jesus would have let me have two donuts...

Roadkill Memories

My family and I were driving around Des Moines today, and I saw a dead squirrel in the road. It might surprise you to hear that my first thought on seeing that dead squirrel was about my Uncle Laverne. This always happens when I see that particular brand of roadkill.

Uncle Laverne was one of my dad's closest buddies in the 1960s--so close that Dad served as Laverne's best man when he (Laverne) married Sheila Fisher. Sheila's sister, Cindy, was a bridesmaid, and the best man fell in love with her and married her a year and a half thereafter. So, given the dual connection, I grew up with frequent visits to Sheila and Laverne's house, and they to ours. Their sons and my brother and I were buddies, too.

One of our traditions was July 4. When my generation were all kids (I was the youngest), they came to Sioux City to light illegal fireworks. After we moved to Creston, it was pretty much just Sheila, Laverne and my parents. I would still hang out occasionally when I wasn't with friends. In July 2004, my parents had moved to Ankeny. I had just got back from backpacking Europe and was living at home till I moved to Iowa City to go to grad school in the fall. On July 5, Sheila and Laverne came down for the traditional holiday together a day late.

After lunch that day, Mom, Sheila and I went shopping. As we went around the corner from my parents' street, there was a dead squirrel on the road. Sheila, exasperated, said, "Laverne killed that squirrel. He swerved toward it to be funny but then he ended up actually killing it." We all three kind of laughed but kind of tsked tsked him for it, too.  End of story.

That was July 5, 2004. Less than two weeks later, we got an early morning phone call with the dreadful news that Laverne had passed away very unexpectedly. We truly lost one of our most valued family members that day, and we all still reel from the loss. I spent that morning in shock while Mom went to be with my aunts at the hospital. My brother came over and we went to lunch together to process the impossible-to-process news. On our way to the restaurant, I saw that squirrel. No one from the city had come to get it, so it was just flatter and grosser than ever. 

As I saw it, I thought of that July 5 and Sheila's story. And that dumb dead squirrel made me cry. It was a reminder that someone who had just been to my house, who had just had dinner with us, who had just told stories with us...who had always been in my life, in this world with me....was no longer going to do or be any of those things. The world still existed. The real, tangible, physical presence of him existed there on the road, in a very weird connection. But Laverne did not. It was too much to take in.

And so, six-and-a-half years later, I think of Laverne's absence from the world every time I see a dead squirrel. It's not your typical memory trigger, but I think it's one that would amuse him. And I'm always happy to think of him, so I guess we all win. Except the squirrels.

Weigh Your Words

I just posted on Facebook what I thought was a little statement of positivity. I was feeling good about life and my place in the world, and I wanted to post a little comment about how my general outlook of self-loathing and negativity was proven wrong..again. There have been several moments this week that really reminded me of how good I have it and how valued I am by those in my life. I had a moment where it hit me how many positives I've experienced this week, amidst the moments of crazy, and I decided to post on it.

Then it was quickly dismissed by a friend as a moment of drunk posting, which it was not.

And I fell right back into despair. Because my general view of myself was proven: I'm weird, people think I'm nuts, melodramatic, foolish, and silly. That one little comment, one little negative comment, innocently intended as a glib little joke, destroyed all the warmth I was feeling. All I could think about on reading it was how everyone else would read it the same way, would accuse me of being drunk, of being stupid. They would laugh at me because I'm the freak people have always assumed me to be. I spent ten minutes crying about it until I finally decided it was best just to delete the posting as a form of damage control.

So here I sit. Right back in despair. Because of one little comment that was not meant to overpower a series of messages of warmth and positivity. I can blame no one but myself for this overreaction, but nonetheless, it's a reminder to me of how one glib little passing statement isn't meaningless. We have to watch our words, lest they be taken seriously. We all have a responsibility to choose our statements carefully to avoid turning someone into a gelatinous mess who won't sleep tonight because she's too busy thinking about all the ways and the reasons why people hate her.

Words are not powerless.

Swings and Things

Having just got home from traveling for a few days, I suppose it's not a huge surprise that I'm feeling a little emotionally taut today. I love to travel in the sense that I love seeing new places, and seeing great places again and again. I love being somewhere else--sometimes anywhere else--for awhile. But I hate to travel in the sense of getting to those places. Air travel, especially, as this summer's two-part blog post about the evils of Delta Airlines will demonstrate.

Yesterday was shaky getting home due in part to Delta Airlines and in part to weather issues. I found myself feeling that old anxiety, coupled with anger, fear, frustration, panic, dread. Things were not going how they were supposed to and it was all I could do not to lash out in front of my travel companions who don't know me well (it was a work trip). My gut reaction to these types of situations is either to get angry and sweary or to cry. Fortunately, I did neither.

Once we were on the plane, though, I had a very difficult time keeping it together. A fellow passenger was inconsiderate, and it pushed me over the edge. I had to put on my iPod, lean forward and close my eyes in order to avoid a full-on meltdown. I had a hard time breathing normally and I was in tears for about half the flight. So, yeah. Today's emotional roller coaster is the inevitable day of letting off steam. Going to the grocery store on a Sunday didn't help, but I digress.

What I didn't expect, though, was the meltdown I had while shutting my eyes for a bit to rest from grading. My mind went to childhood, as it often does, but this time rather than focusing on my own directly, I started thinking about my brother. Like me, he was teased as a kid. I remember a few instances of seeing him be teased, and I know of other times when I wasn't there to witness it. I remembered one cold day on the playground before school when we were standing and waiting to go inside. He had his coat all zipped up, including the fur-trimmed hood. The coat had an extended front part that covered the face more fully. I remember thinking it looked like E.T.'s head. We were standing against the building and a kid came and teased my brother about the coat. My brother said nothing in return. I remember being mad on his behalf, but I didn't say anything, either.

I thought about that day this afternoon, and other little things like it, and I just started to sob. Heaving sobs. Because how dare they make fun of my brother? How dare they not see that he's a good person? He and I are so very different. I'm more social and emotional. He's more reserved by far. He has his eccentricities, as I do, but they are a radically different set than are mine. But, like me, he didn't deserve anyone's ridicule.

And that was the thing that became my bugaboo today. That was the thing that let me get out some of that tension build up. There's no sense in it, nothing that can be done. But maybe that's the point. The cause of the tension was my lack of control, my ability to do anything about anything, so maybe so went the release. The idea that there are injustices and frustrations that no amount of optimism or positive thinking can make better. That there will always be assholes. And asshole companies, like Delta. Who knows. Maybe those elementary school bullies are now running the show at Delta. That would make sense, actually.

Happy-ish Holidays

Today begins the season of rapid-fire holiday celebrations. From Halloween, we quickly move to Thanksgiving and from there to Christmas, finally wrapping up in two months with New Year's Eve. I love the holidays, and the music, and the decorations, and all of that. But it's blended with a sense of dread.

Most of my friends and family are creating memories as couples, and/or with kids. Most of the people out tonight chasing their costumed kids up and down the street are my age. Meanwhile, I sit home, alone, doling out candy. I'm not buying gifts "from Santa" or making the Thanksgiving dinner for my family.

And, really, who am I to whine about that? Because A) It's a bunch of headache and stress, as anyone with kids and/or in-laws will be quick to tell me, and B) I'm so very very very blessed to have wonderful parents and a brother to go home to for my holidays, which my friends who've lost parents, spouses, or siblings will so justifiably remind me. I truly have much to be glad for, and I am grateful. And I do love being with them, more than I can put to words. And I have it so much better and easier than so many people, in my life and in the world beyond my personal boundaries.

But, but, but. There's always the but. But. I'm so tired of doing it all alone. Being alone. Going to holiday parties alone. Handing out candy...alone. Driving four hours home...alone. Every damned week of the holiday season brings particularly acute reminders of alone. Being alone. Being alone.

My love of the holidays, today included, is hanging increasingly tenuously on memories, nostalgia, and what they once were. Every year, I wonder why the holidays don't feel as exciting or happy as they once used to. All adults experience that, I suppose, but I can't help feeling that a lot of it for me is the stagnancy, the feeling that by now it should be different. By now I should be experiencing the holidays through younger, newer eyes, and through the creation of new memories with new people rather than the rote patterns of solitude and an awkward sense of artificial joyousness glossing over an emptiness and isolation. Through the distortion of tears that can't come out till later because letting them out is a violation of the Rules of Merriment. Of Rule 1 in particular: "Just be grateful and shut up about it."

So, I'll start listening to Christmas music soon. I'll put on the glad face, and I'll sometimes mean it. I'll be happy to see my family, happy to watch It's a Wonderful Life and A Christmas Story. But it will be happiness that's drug down by something more persistent and wearisome. By something that's doing nothing but begging for January...when seasonal depression hits. The blessed relief of seasonal depression, when no one expect any more of me anyway.

Let Me Call You Sunshine

Yesterday, my cousin, his wife, and their two kids made their annual trip to La Crosse to see the fall leaf colors. Unfortunately, the colors haven't been particularly vibrant this year, but we had a really nice day anyway. We went to McGregor and Marquette, Iowa, just over the river from Prairie du Chien, to shop for antiques (I only bought a cheap fake pearl necklace), stopped at an orchard just as it was closing, had dinner together, then came home. After my cousin and the kids went to bed, his wife and I stayed up till nearly 4am talking, which was fun.

It's been years since I stayed up so late, and it kind of reminds me of all the times we'd visit my cousin's family growing up. My dad and his dad were buddies (my parents met when Dad was my uncle's best man when he married my mom's sister), and no two men liked to talk better than Laverne and Dad. When visiting my parents' hometown area, we would often visit them and stay till way late before going back to Grandpa and Grandma's house to sleep for a few hours till church on Sunday morning. My brother and I loved to play with my two cousins, who had four-wheelers, video games, a pool table, and tons of other crazy fun ideas. I also enjoyed (with some horror) watching my cousins pound on each other. My brother and I only ever play fought (besides shouting at one another), so to watch an authentic fight was pretty fascinating to me.

My cousin who visited was the younger son, and I idolized him growing up. I didn't want to play with my girl cousin who was closer to my age--she was way boring in comparison, though we're really good friends now. He was crazy and cool and always so nice to me. He came to stay at our house for a few days one summer, and he graciously played house with me for awhile instead of playing Atari with my brother. How's that for a good guy?

While we were all out shopping yesterday, he reminded me of something I had completely forgotten. He asked if I remembered when my dad would call me Sunshine, particularly when I was upset. "What's the matter, Sunshine?" he would say as he picked me up to comfort me. It's funny that I had completely forgotten that, but I do remember my mom (lovingly) calling me Missy Butt, Booger Butt, and Poop Sock. Haha. I've been thinking about that ever since, and the memory of it has really been particularly powerful for some reason. I guess maybe it goes with the more general nostalgia I've been feeling lately, but it's such a warm, safe feeling to remember those moments of being taken care of, being cuddled when I needed soothing, being loved.

It's a reminder that I'm a very lucky person, even now. Dad hasn't called me Sunshine in more than 20 years, I imagine, and given that I'm an adult, it would be creepy and weird to sit on his lap or be cuddled. But I still always know that I can call home and get help when I need it. I'm loved in the same way, even though I take care of myself most of the time. I'm still someone's Sunshine.

Metaphysical Reflections

It's not a giant secret to those closest to me that I've spent most of my adult life away from organized religion, and almost as much time away from "unorganized" religion. I grew up in a religious home, but we went to a pretty awful church when I was a teenager. They basically asked us to put our blinders on and go through life without questioning, doubting, or doing anything even remotely fun. I mean, even the Waltons were scandalous sinners by comparison to these people.

When I got to college, in a fit of uncharacteristically optimistic "maybe this time will be better" philosophizing, I went to a church with a family member. It was okay at first. Seemed more open, people seemed nicer. But, alas, in the end, it turned out to be as much a product of rigid conservatism and unquestioning/unquestionable legalism. I remember one day at lunch with one of the pastors, I asked for an answer to a tough question and got the textbook diversionary answer. Tried again. Same answer. Tried one more time. Same answer. That was the final straw in a long series of frustrations.

So by the time I graduated, I was done. Religion was not for me. I still respected my parents and others who managed to be religious without being close-minded, but I just couldn't participate. A friend/neighbor and I spent lots of time talking about religious issues, but I found myself increasingly alienated from it. By my mid-20s, being in church became truly uncomfortable. I felt like I didn't belong there, and not just philosophically. Whenever I went, I felt a vague physical uneasiness in my chest and stomach. I felt no connection to the messages, to the songs, to the imagery. In fact, it was more the opposite. I felt like crying when I was there. Not because of a longing to fit in but from a feeling of an increasing, gaping (and angry) separation from all that had felt normal as a kid.

Hearing people talk about their faith felt frustrating and alienating. It felt false, like empty rhetoric, even when I knew it to be otherwise. All I could focus on when hearing religious talk was the hypocrisy--the hateful antigay rhetoric from divorced people and adulterers; the anti-immigrant spitefulness from those who spouted "love thy neighbor;" the sexist drivel against female church leadership from people who claimed we are all created in God's image. Et cetera.

I have been purposefully using the past tense in this post, not necessarily because things have changed in any meaningful way. My bullshit detector still flares up when I hear religious talk. But I will confess to experiencing some alterations in how I think. I don't know what it means, what I'm meant to do with it, or what I will choose to do about it once I figure what I'm meant to do about it. I'm nowhere near ready to walk through the doors of a church.

But a few things have been happening. First, I have been having random flashbacks to childhood the past few weeks, and the first image that always hits me as I go through the wave of memories is of me, about age 4-6, running around outside the doors of the (normal, happy) church we went to until I was 11 and we moved. It's not something I actively try to bring up. These flashes just pop into my head at unexpected moments. It took quite a few times before I even noticed that it was the same image that started it. I'm never inside the church. I'm always just running around in front of the doors. That inevitably leads to images of my dad from around the same era. Those differ each time in terms of what he's doing and/or how I'm interacting with him. Even now that I've noticed the pattern, it comes to me unexpectedly but in the same pattern before I even really realize I'm thinking about it.

Then, this summer I read a book by C.S. Lewis. While he wrote many books on religion, the one I read this summer is one of his academic works as a literature scholar/professor. As I read it, I thought back to Mere Christianity, one of the books I read with my friend/neighbor nearly 10 years ago. I got an urge to read that again, but was distracted by being included in a new book club with a book to read by October. I finished that early, and the idea kept nagging at me to read the Lewis book. I ignored it because I wanted to read another new book I had recently bought. But the feeling would not go away. I kept thinking about Lewis and his book. So I got it off the shelf.

What's particularly interesting to me about that is that it also connects in a fairly abstract but notable way to the topic of one of the classes I'm teaching this semester. The topic is social constructionism, which basically argues that all we are as people is a product of the social interactions and relationships--basically our communication and how we're communicated to. (It's more than that, but that's the two-cent summary.) Lewis, unsurprisingly, takes a different view of human nature, but that has made his argument all the more interesting, and the book all the more useful to me in a broad way through multiple aspects of my life. All that does, then, is to force me to really dig into my vision of my self and how a metaphysical entity fits into that...how god/God fits into that.

I have no idea what any of this will lead to. I'm still quite adamantly resistant to a return to being religious in a Christian/organized sense. But I feel like these two things are telling me that this is a time in my life when I'm meant to do some intense and meaningful reflection on my relationship to god/God in some sense that's useful, relevant, and realistic to me. The flashbacks are too intense, and the call to that book to persistent, to ignore. Given my recent shift toward more optimism and openness to whatever positive energy wants to find its way to my door, maybe this is the next logical area of development.

Maybe by the time I'm 40, I'll know who the heck I'm supposed to be.

Nothing to Report

After a rough start to the semester with a difficult situation (ambiguity alert), things are going well for me. I've been able to successfully divert a few incoming self-loathing crises with very little effort, which I take to be a good thing. I have managed to keep up relatively well with my schedule. I have not veered too far off my diet, beyond the occasional splurge. But even with the splurges, I chose to learn some lessons about my body rather than beat myself up for them or run screaming from the possibility of enjoying a little too much.

What is this? Is this equilibrium? Is this...thing...this...contentment...is this what people feel? Is this what it's like to be a balanced, sane, or (dare I say) a happy person?

Is it possible I've turned some kind of corner? Is it possible this corner is a full 90 degree one rather than a moderate, slight, itty bitty curve?

Great googly moogly. Am I going to be okay?

What the crap am I supposed to do with this development? I'm so confused.

It's all gonna be okay

Oof. It's been an interesting few days. I read that book that had me all freaked out about everything in my little universe. I tend to go a little overboard at times, and this was one of those times. But sometimes going overboard is okay. Maybe because when you call for help (even if not to a real person but just to the world more generally), you get responses that serve as little life preservers. It's all simply a matter of asking.

While freaking out, things started happening. I spent Saturday night just meditating. Not in a new-age Buddhist way, necessarily (though that would have been okay, too) but just in a sitting back and letting go kind of way. I decided to pay more attention to my own self-negativity and counteract it when I found myself thinking this way. Then things got interesting.

1) A friend had called on Friday, and I hadn't heard the phone. I noticed the call later on, but didn't notice the voice mail. She called again when I was out on Monday, and that time I noticed a voice mail, so I heard both back to back. The first one was just a sweet simple message that she had thought of me and found something I had given her a long time ago when she was struggling. She wanted me to know how much that meant to her and that she was glad to have me for a friend (um, one who hasn't yet called her back, but I digress). I cried a little at that. The other message was an offer to give me something she had from her mom who recently passed. Very sweet.

2) Then I had another voice mail (I have a habit of not leaving my cell phone where I can hear it--so sue me). It was one of my cousins who just wanted to say that he thought it was great that I had lost weight and that he and his spouse are trying, too. It was just a spontaneous call from a cousin I don't normally hear from, and it was so very sweet and thoughtful. And made me feel really good, too.

3) I was talking to some friends about my prior post topic of anxiety, and they both completely related. They understood and could provide similar stories, so now I don't feel so unusual or crazy. We're all highly functioning adults, so maybe the anxiety doesn't really rule us after all. Maybe I can let that go now.

4) The author of the book that had me freaked out quoted a poet named Mary Oliver, and the quote was really meaningful to me. I had been given a book of her poems from a friend awhile back. I struggle with really understanding poetry, for some reason, so I had started it but not finished. After reading this quote in the food book on Sunday, I went to my shelf to look for the Oliver collection. I couldn't find it anywhere. I figured it would turn up eventually and forgot about it. Then on Monday, I went to my nightstand cupboard to look for a pencil (I'm always losing them). I had cleaned the nightstand out a couple of weeks ago, so I knew there was one in there. I found it, but then I noticed a book in there, which I hadn't recalled putting there; I thought I'd put all the books back on my shelf. I pulled it out...it was the Mary Oliver poem book. I opened it up, and the only poem that was dog-eared (I do that for ones that I particularly like) was the poem that was quoted in the food book.

5) I got an email from a childhood friend who has been very ill, and things are really starting to look up for her. Tests are coming back in her favor, she's feeling great, and her kids are adjusting to school...her daughter even wants to play the flute like I did! Yeah! I was hoping for good news, but the email radiated it from every letter. I just really needed to see that well-deserved peace from her to remind me that all those angst-ridden teen years, those years of anxiety, also produced some of the most joyful and meaningful experiences of my life, and that they will continue to do so for many many many years.

So, from moderate despair came a series of messages of hope. It shows that my attempts to start afresh and be the happy person I deserve as much as anyone to be are not going unheeded or unnoticed by god or the universe or whatever label you want to put on it. Now I just have to keep it up...that's the hard part.