Advice from a Soul Brother

"Don't force the fit. If you do, your feet will hurt after a while."

Priceless!

Home

Instead of working on my paper, I've spent a good part of my break reading a fabulous book suggested by my go-to book guy. Every single book he's suggested has been well worth the read. What was the book? Home by Marilynne Robinson.

She won the Pulitzer Prize for a book I read and blogged about a long time ago, Gilead. Home is sort of the sequel, but only in that it was written after Gilead. It actually takes place during the same time frame of the first, but from a different perspective.

The novel is set in the late 50s. Basically, there's a ne'er do well son, Jack, who comes home to rural Iowa town Gilead where he reunites with his youngest sister Glory and ailing father after a 20-year absence. It's bittersweet. The sweet joy of the prodigal's return intermingled with the bitter regret and resentment and longing of the silent years of his absence.

Whenever I read a book, a good book, I put myself in it somehow. At some points I imagined myself as Glory. I recognized the mixed emotions she had towards Jack. I identified with her fears and feelings of vulnerability when she pondered her past experiences and her future. At others, I imagined myself as Jack's distant love, Della. Though she wasn't a main character, I could imagine her inner conflict as her loyalty to family was tested.

Good books make me think. This one made me think about what it means to love. Though I certainly don't consider myself an expert on the topic, I've heard lots of definitions and theories. But Home made me think this: That loving someone is giving someone permission. Permission to do two very powerful things. You give them permission to bring you joy while at the same time giving them permission to bring you pain. Allowing someone to make you wildly happy is accompanied by allowing them to possibly hurt you profoundly. The only reason Jack was able to cause his family so much pain was because they loved him so much. He continued to hurt them with his actions and eventually his absence because they wouldn't give up on him. But when he returned, he caused considerable joy and relief. A letter or a phone call from Della was the world to Jack. But returned letters and silence? An unbearable blow.

Loving someone is giving them power. It's not some fluffy, sappy game. It's relinquishing control. The prospect is at once scary and wonderful.

Thanksgiving 2008 Pics

Awww!

I don't care who you voted for, anyone with a heart must admit that this picture is criminally cute:

cnn.com

Thanksgiving Texts from a Wannabe Revolutionary

First: "Happy mass turkey consumption day!"

Then: "I've received a lot of backlash. It can hurt fighting the man. Especially on the holidays. But I'm on the Native American's side. I don't understand why we celebrate breaking bread with them when we later performed mass genocide to steal their land. The first winter at Plymouth marks the rise of the evil empire!"

This kid is great. His idealism and bright-eyed desire to stick it to the man are priceless.

Thanksgiving Eve

I usually take this day to, whilst fulfilling my usual duties of baker's assistant, make a list of the things I'm thankful for:

1. A family who loves me: brothers who make me laugh, a mother who is also a friend, and a dad who reminds me of my value.

2. Having a relationship with God such that I can speak to Him and I know that He hears me.

3. Children: their hugs, smiles and innocence.

4. The opportunity to pursue an education.

5. The chances I've had in the past and the chances I'll have in the future to travel the world.

6. Having the ability to speak a foreign language.

7. Reliable friends.

8. A car that gets awesome gas mileage.

9. Straight teeth.

10. The hereditary gift of not having to watch my weight (yet).

11. My health.

12. Sunflowers.

13. Scarves.

14. Chai tea lattes.

15. Good books.

16. Lively, intelligent conversation.

17. Genuine, all-encompassing hugs.

18. My boy winning the presidency.

19. People that make me belly laugh.

20. My youth and having my whole life ahead of me.

Brothers

Aww, my middle bro is so sweet. He took me out to lunch today. He's basically a hulk. Like, he could effortlessly snap me in half like a toothpick. And imagine, I used to be able to push him around.

Sometimes I'm glad I had brothers and no sisters. We never competed with one another, never got jealous of one another, never argued over borrowing each others' stuff. (I'm not saying that stuff never happened between my brothers themselves, it just never happened between us.) The only fights we got into were literal. Not prissy "I'm not talking to you anymore" fights.

While having brothers toughened me up, it also spoiled me. I didn't have to share. I existed in my own category. But at the same time, it made life harder, especially since I'm also the oldest. Boys will be boys, but girls will be good (and the oldest will be responsible). And not allowed to do anything.

Oh, well. Things are different now that we're older. My brothers are cool and got my back and would beat anybody up for me. That's what brothers are for.

Future Mocha Mom?

Okay, I wrote this yesterday, and then I read this today on cnn.com. Weirdness!

Update @5:50 PM: Yikes, I just read some of the comments on this article and am kind of weirded out. Maybe "Mocha Moms" is corny (certainly not "racist"), and perhaps heralding the idea of Michelle Obama as a stay-at-home mom is exaggerated, but I liked it simply because I like the idea of a woman pursuing education and using it to raise her children.

My Babies!

(sigh.) I miss my job.

I'm back in my hometown (well, as much of a hometown as I'll ever have) for Thanksgiving break. One fabulous thing about Auburn is that they give us the entire week off. Not just rinky dink Wednesday through Friday. The downside? I still have a wretched paper to contend with. So instead of procrastinatory imaginations about la Gloriosa coming down, I'll regale you with procrastinatory imaginations of rugged Argentine gauchos and their romantically rustic lives on the pampas.

Anyway, I'm here and I have the week off. I couldn't resist the temptation to go by my old place of employment and visit my babies. The truth is, I super miss my job. I miss being around children. Since going back to school, I deal with big people all day. I deal with big people things all day—research, scholarly journals and MLA style, papers, the specter of comprehensive exams, methodologies and approaches . . . I miss the innocence and simplicity and hilarity of working with kids.

I felt like a celebrity today. Seeing my awkwardly sweet middle schoolers' faces light up and the bright, gap-toothed smiles of the little ones upon seeing me never got old. It almost made me cry to see how happy everyone was to see me and how much everyone had grown. One 3rd grader wrapped her arms around me, buried her face in my sweater and said, "I miss your sweet smell." lol! That is ridiculously priceless.

I was swarmed with hordes of kids at church this Sunday, too. I guess it comes with being a former children's church teacher and occasional Sunday school teacher substitute. "Have you been good?" I ask. I always get vigorous affirmative nods in response, knowing that they've most likely been the opposite. Those darling rogues. Those human incarnations of Curious George. Children. I do want some of my own one day. I can't help but think that my various experiences—studying, teaching, traveling, etc.—will help me be a good future mom to my future kids. [Cue sappy, overblown, sentimental score. Cut to scenes of a 30something me teaching my 3-year old to say "leche" and "lait" while handing him a sippy cup of milk, reading Curious George stories, making finger paintings of animals we saw at the zoo, and lastly saying prayers together before turning on the radio to NPR's "Evening Jazz" to lull him to sleep.]

From a Classmate

I thought my little poem about the Glorious One coming down and finishing my paper for me was pretty clever, so I sent the link to one of my fellow classmates in medieval lit who I knew would get a kick out of it. He's also taking Latin American modernist poetry and this was his reply:

"Je je, nice one Chantell! I will now be asking for her assistance in my paper for Dr. _____. Does she help with modernist, feminist suicidal Uruguayan poets, too? ;-)"

Priceless!

I Like David Brooks

He's a New York Times columnist who makes me think of an intellectual Mr. Rogers. Mild-mannered, thoughtful, right-of-center. He's conservative but not hawkish. He can praise without fawning. He can criticize without condemning.

But today he invented a word that made the logophile in me go ga-ga. In describing with a tongue-in-cheek air the intellectual prowess of members of Obama's cabinet he writes:

"Even more than past administrations, this will be a valedictocracy — rule by those who graduate first in their high school classes."

'Valedictocracy' is the best word ever! I don't know why I like it so much. It's a word that's funny in a rib-poking sort of way, but at the same time a word that admires the way that Obama is valuing intellect in putting together his cabinet.

Read the whole column here. His articles are always well-written and he's one of the ones I always read. I have to say my all-time favorite is Maureen Dowd, though. Even though sometimes she's a little more hit-and-miss. But she is SO funny, I forgive her.

Oh, and I discovered a new feature on NYT that made me cry with pure delight. If you highlight a word, a little question mark pops up and when you click it, a window will pop up with definitions! Almost as nifty as Google's "define" feature.

The Last Milagro

There once was a girl going out of her mind

wondering if ever of this paper the end she'd find.

She was tired as heck, for sleep she pined,

because on the morrow, back to the daily grind.

"Oh, Glorious One," she cried, "will you have mercy

on a poor grad student as tired as me?

I've been writing about your milagros, you see

So why not do another, cuz this junk ain't easy."

Then, like a flash, a miraculous sight!

The Glorious One appeared bathed in radiant light!

She said to the girl, "Never fear, all wrongs I make right,

what would you like me to do for you tonight?"

The girl blinked and said, "I must be delirious.

The Virgin? That's crazy! This can't be serious!"
She had to admit, though, she was kind of curious . . .

if the Glorious One finished her paper, she wouldn't be furious.

"Hail, Mary, umm, if you're so full of grace

would you mind finishing my paper at a more rapid pace?

Besides, you were the one who made the milagros take place.

I figured I'd ask, you know, just in case."

The Glorious One sighed, "Girl, you're lazy as all.

And you're not even Catholic, yet I answered your call.

I'll have mercy this once but, I declare, what gall!

Next time you have a paper, you better get on the ball."

She made the sign of the cross, the sign of her Son

over my laptop then said, "Ha, that was fun!"

The Glorious one then disappeared, the victory won.

I looked at the screen. My paper was done!

Paper Procrastination Post # 9873833: 20somethings

(sigh.) I'm almost done with page 2. Look, some progress is better than none, okay?

You know your 20something years are slipping through your fingers like sand when you find yourself as big sister to another 20something.

I had every intention of making a big dent in my paper when I'm visited by an intense, uber-idealistic kid who's spearheading a Bible study group along with me and another young lady from church. The other young lady wasn't able to make it, but he still wanted to meet.

He whirs through roommate problems, spills ideas he has for the Bible study, and spouts his views that are scattered across the socio-political and theological spectrum. He's a human Energizer bunny, fidgety, teeming with ideas and plans and insight.

I want to pat him on the head. Pinch his cherubic cheeks. He reminds me of the old days when I wanted to save the world. When I wanted to be a vegetarian and join the PeaceCorps and thought Communism wasn't such a bad idea.

I pleaded with him . . . "I have a paper to write."

"When's it due?" he countered.

"Thursday."

He gasped. "You shouldn't even be started on it yet!"

I sighed a wise, world-weary sigh. "Graduate school is different. You'll learn one day."

Paper Procrastination Post # 9873832

(sigh) There's something about having to write a paper that makes me incredibly prolific on this blog.

Me: Who wants to know what I'm writing about?

Everybody: Meeee!!

Me: All right, everyone, gather round. Let Mama Channy tell you all about a lovely medieval Spanish novel, Los Milagros de Nuestra Señora. Okay?

Everybody: Yay! We love medieval Spanish stories!

Me: Oh, goody. Now, there was a man born around 1196 named Gonzalo de Berceo. Can everybody say that? Gonzalo de Berceo.

Everybody: Gonzaaalooo de Berceeeooo.

Me: Very good, everyone. Mama Channy is so proud of you. Now, Gonzalo de Berceo had the novel idea of putting together a collection of stories of miracles that the Virgin Mary did. Some of them included some downright scandalous characters. There are tales of fornicating clerics, drunken monks, and even pregnant abbesses!

Everybody: Ooh! That's bad, Mama Channy.

Me: Yes, I know. But the important thing is that nobody is perfect, and according to Berceo, as long as you're faithful to the Virgin, she'll come down and help you out even if you've been naughty.

Someone from the group: The Virgin is nicer than Santa. If you're naughty, Santa puts you on his bad list and gives you nothing but coal for Christmas.

Me: Err . . . that's one way to look at it. Anyway, Mama Channy is writing about the intended audience of Berceo's tales. So she's including evidence of orality, references that would have appealed to laymen making pilgrimages, as well as references that would have appealed to church leaders without formal training or education. She's also going to provide evidence that overall, Berceo's work had didactic purposes.

Everyone: What's 'didactic'?

Me: Oh, well, it just means that it was meant to teach something.

Someone from the group: So, then, why not just say that instead of using that funny word?

Me: Oh, you sweet dears, Mama Channy is in graduate school, and no graduate student worth her salt gets by without peppering her papers with funny words. Using funny words in papers is a graduate student rite of passage. And Mama Channy has to use big words in Spanish, on top of that.

Everyone: Wooooww!

Me: (smiling) That's right.

Someone else from the group: But, Mama Channy, aren't you supposed to be writing your paper? It's due Thursday, isn't it?

Me: (nervously laughing) Well, aren't you an observant one? Ahem. Mama Channy better be getting along now.

Everyone: Awwww!

Me: Now, now. We'll have a chance to procrastinate together again soon. Don't worry. Ta ta for now, dear ones.

Everyone: Bye, Mama Channy!

I Hate Complaining

I hate complaining. I especially hate writing down my complaints because when I read back over them later, I sound like a petulant child.

But I have to be honest. Writing a ten-page paper about Los milagros de Nuestra Señora is the most unattractive thing in the world. Unless you were my medieval lit professor who gets excited over obscure latinate words that aren't even used in modern Spanish anymore. But see, the thing is, he's passionate about it. Though I'm not excited at all about medieval Spanish literature, and especially not about the prospect about having to write a ten-page paper about miracles performed by the Virgin Mary, I'm glad that I'm taking this class from my particular professor because he loves it.

I, too, want to do something that I love. There's nothing more satisfying than being completely enveloped in a world of doing what you're passionate about. But the bratty little kid in me throws a tantrum at the idea of having to do things you frankly detest in order to possibly do what you love. The romantic in me rebels against the idea of something being a mere means to an end.

I want to love whatever I end up doing. I want to love what I'm doing now. I wish I had the spirit of one who tackles every task with gusto. I wish I had more faith, that I had a steelier spine, that I had a sharper sense of purpose. Because right now, I'm just a sulky twentysomething pouting over a lot in life that many would love to exchange with me for their own.

15 Things I'm Not Afraid to Admit

I've been tagged by Sis. Jewel to do one of these nifty little memes, so here goes . . .

I'm not afraid to admit . . .

1. that I want to get married and have kids (preferably while Barack Obama's president, and a second term is not guaranteed, so, Mr. Wonderful, get on the ball!).

2. that I have songs downloaded from the first High School Musical on my iPod.

3. that I bring my Curious George doll on trips with me. He's like my traveling companion.

4. that I floss my teeth every day. I'm obsessed with flossing. When I run out of dental floss, I go mad.

5. that I make to-do lists and get profound satisfaction from crossing things off of it. In fact, if I finish a task that I forgot to put on my to-do list, I'll write it down so that I can then cross it off.

6. that I think Barack Obama and his newly-appointed chief of staff Rahm Emanuel are both kinda hot.

7. that I often say "Blast!" with slightly raised fist if something doesn't go my way.

8. that I'm a borderline pyromaniac. I get a gleam in my eye every time I light my scented candles.

9. that when I was little, I hated Shaggy from Scooby Doo. He was SO annoying with his whiny voice and cowardly demeanor. He was also extremely greedy and useless and never helped to solve the crime. He just got in the way. And he was never funny either.

10. that I don't know how to drive a stick shift.

11. that I'm a sucker for intriguing accents.

12. that I laugh when people trip.

13. that my current ringtone is "Unwritten" by Natasha Beddingfield.

14. that I like using big words.

15. that I have a weakness for the underdog.

You know you're in Alabama when . . .

you can unashamedly walk around barefoot at the main university library. C'mon, its a nasty, rainy day and my ballet flats got soaked! The only thing worse than barefeet is wet feet, and there's nothing more annoying than producing moist squishy sounds while trying to be inconspicuous walking amongst the silent stacks.

One of My Fleeting Fears

I was afraid that everyone would be communicating in exegetical hermeneutical theologo-speak and that I would be left behind, coughing in their Holy Ghost-filled academic dust.

This is all I want to know . . .

Has anyone ever worn their glasses for you?

I'm being contracted out

My blogging abilities are being contracted out (on a volunteer basis, of course) to my favorite webzine, Ninetyandnine.com.

I'm currently talking about election stuff over at A Month in the Life, and I'll be liveblogging the upcoming UGST Symposium in St. Louis this coming Thursday and Friday at Collideoscope.

Enjoy!

P.S.-Don't forget to vote today!

This is horrible!

Omg, this is awful. Obama's grandmother passed away. His father died in a fatal car accident, his mother died of ovarian cancer at a relatively young age, his grandfather has long since passed and now his grandmother, the last living one who raised him, on the day before Election Day.

This is so horrible. Imagine the stress he must be under right now. I cannot even imagine. Regardless of your political affiliation, our prayers need to be with this man right now.

http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/11/03/obama.grandma/index.html

Par-tay!

Yeah, I know, I've dressed up as a cowgirl in the past. But in economic times like these, a girl's gotta work with what she's got and costume recycling is definitely in order. The peeps in my program are a pretty cool bunch. Enjoy!