So Much Joy

I've had a rough spring, for oh, so many reasons.

But it's all over. Sure I got a few more sets of papers to grade, and two more sets of final exams... but my classes are fine. Good students, people trying hard, a bunch of people who are really getting into literature. And that makes me happy, willing to grade whatever comes my way.

That's not why I'm better.

In reality, nothing has changed. Only my mindset. I'm doing what I love, and I'm making time every single day to do more of it. A friend of mine here, walking one morning with me, was listening to me telling her (during spring break), "I'm mostly done with my grading, and then I just have my writing and painting."

She corrected me, called me on the destructive word I had used: Just.

Thank God she's an artist. She understands too well how easy it is for artists to negate their abilities, to lessen what they do, to push it off into the corner because it isn't work.

But it is. It's my work. It's what I do. It's real, and tangible, a mixture of artistic ability, perception, insight, and meaning. It's hard to do. It takes practice, revision, lots and lots of work.

She made me say it: "I am a writer."

That statement has made all the difference. I'm writing now. I'm starting on one book, revising, and then I'm attacking the next one. I'm going to send one off--time after time--while I revise the next one, and the next. I have four novels, each one of them with some kernel of truth worth working on.

So I will work. And work. I can't promise to love every minute of it, but I love what I do.

I am a writer.

Hunching

The dowager's hump

Comes naturally

To most of womankind.

Ashamed

Are we

Afraid we might stick out

Or show off

Or think more of ourselves

Than we should.

Embarrassed

Of our breasts

Shoulders

Lanky hair

Height

Pale skin

Brown skin

Moles

Or acne

No matter what we have

We teach ourselves to hate it

To hunch over

To hide.

Oh, what would we be

What could we do

If we would only stop hunching?

You Don't

Obey.

No.

Don't rock the boat.

Do it this way.

Stop.

You won't make it.

You're doing it wrong.

We've been taught all along

To conform

That if we don't do

What everybody else in the entire world is doing

We'll be ostracized

Left out

Laughed at

Exposed on YouTube in one scathing

FAIL.

So we hide ourselves.

Our "immature" paintings

Gather dust and spiders in the dark garage

Our manuscripts lurk in convoluted files

On our laptop

Never printed off

Unread by any but our own eyes.

We wear big t-shirts to cover up the bulges

At aerobics class.

We worry

What if we suck?

What if we really don't have what it takes?

("What it takes to what?" I ask you.)

What if we hold out our little self-made bouquet

And someone slaps it down?

What if everyone thinks we're lame?

Or weird?

Or stupid?

Better to be weird

Better to be stupid, crazy, ugly, silly, ridiculous

Than bland.

Than forgettable.

Don't hide your paintings behind your dresser

Set them up on the lawn

With spotlights and big signs

Like a garage sale

Embrace yourself in one humongous hug

Wear tight clothing

Wear bright pink leggings

To emphasize the cellulite!

Show off!

Be happy!

Stop apologizing for your manuscript

And send out those queries

Or, better yet

Pass your manuscript out to strangers on the street

Tell them it's you, in paper form

And they'll love it

And if they don't, you just don't care

And smile all the way

Knowing that no matter many reject you

No matter how they judge you

Hate you

Find you annoying--

You don't.

Envy in a Zumba Classroom

She looks in the mirror

Sees the ashy hair

Like hay in a barn

(Her mama always says)

Wonders if her bony knees

Look bad in shorts

Wishes for the legs

On the third girl from the left...

Who's stepping to the side

And sees her stomach isn't what it was

(What it never was, but she wishes it could be)

Her hips show signs of babies

Doughnuts, and genetics

Why do they put this mirror up

So she can see how fat she is

When next to all these skinny people

Just like little miss Hot Pink...

Who shimmies, with futility

Seeing women's breasts

Full and shaking all around her

While her own boyish ones

Practically non-existent

Don't move at all

Babies didn't help, either,

A brief reprieve from flat

Not like the rock star in the front row...

Who always dances in the foreground

Not to see herself

(God forbid!)

But because the Amazon women crowd her out

And she can't see the leader

The one with the perfect legs

The perfect tan

The perfect clothes

The perfect hair

Who's grateful not to face the mirror

So that she doesn't see

Her own imperfections.

Your Favorite Teacher

The training I'm involved with right now has sparked memories of some of my favorite teachers. I remember one, Ms. Cutuly, who used to stand on her desk, ready to jump off if we couldn't get a grammar question right. I remember a professor in my undergrad program who taught us everything so that we understood it well enough to teach it, since she knew most of us were future teachers. She had no attendance policy, yet no one ever wanted to miss a day, for we covered tremendous amounts of material in a single class period (no fluff movies and wasteful activities for her!). I remember a professor I visited in her office, to get her to sign me out of a course I'd taken at another school. By the end of the conversation, she was willing to sign the form, but I was determined to take the course again, with her. And I don't regret it, for it was one of the most useful classes I have ever taken (both times I took it!).

Honestly, most of the time school has been the place where I could fill my self-esteem and feel somewhat useful. At home I was overlooked and out of place, and I was often told I was unlikely to amount to a whole lot. At school, I had teachers who thought the world of me, who told me I could be anything, and I couldn't wait to get to school every day so that I could live in that world again, one where I was a SOMEBODY.

But I know my experiences are likely different than yours. What engaged you as a student? What teachers did you love, and why? If you've been waiting for a chance to respond that doesn't include poetry, here's your chance. What makes teachers great? What did you most need as a student, and how did they meet your needs, encourage learning, and make you feel respected and valuable? I'd love to know...