When Virginia Woolf was writing the novel she eventually called Mrs. Dalloway, she hadn't yet decided to call it that. Her working title for the in-progress manuscript was The Hours.
It's not clear what prompted her to make the switch. Either title would've been fine: Mrs. Dalloway works because it alerts you to the fact that the novel is largely focused on Clarissa Dalloway, and it also primes you for Woolf's psychologically immersive writing style. (When you read Mrs. Dalloway, you read Mrs. Dalloway, inhabiting Clarissa's consciousness via her narrated stream of thoughts.) The Hours would've worked, too, because it alerts you to one of the novel's most prominent themes (the nature of time; how our perception of time's passing affects us), and it also primes you for the structure of the novel, which -- like James Joyce's Ulysses -- all takes place over the course of one day. Throughout the novel, Big Ben regularly strikes out to announce the time, the clock's "leaden circles dissolv[ing] in the air."
For most people (nay, all people) this is nothing more than a literary-historical fun fact. However, because I routinely name-check Mrs. Dalloway as my favorite novel, I've developed a Hot Take™ on this subject:
Mrs. Dalloway is an inferior title. I wish Woolf had stuck with The Hours. (And not just because it left the opening for Michael Cunningham to steal the title for himself and derivatively ride Woolf's coattails to literary fame. (Belated second Hot Take™ alert!))
The problem with Mrs. Dalloway is that the title misleadingly suggests that the novel is only about Clarissa, when really, the book follows two central characters, Clarissa and a struggling WWI veteran named Septimus Smith. We spend nearly as much of the book in Septimus's fragmented mind as we do in Clarissa's more orderly consciousness, hopping back and forth between the two.
Clarissa and Septimus don't know each other and never meet. While Clarissa spends the day running errands in preparation for the large party she'll be hosting in the evening, Septimus wanders the streets of London in a traumatized haze, accompanied by his worried wife Rezia, agitated by psychiatrists who neither respect nor comprehend what he feels and needs. It's Septimus, not Clarissa, who ushers in the novel's late climax: feeling unbearably oppressed by Dr. Holmes, he throws himself out a window and impales himself on the gate below. Later, at her party, Clarissa overhears a couple guests talking about the "young man who had killed himself" and mulls over how someone could fling life away like "a shilling into the Serpentine."
That moment at the party is the only point in the novel where our two protagonists' lives directly intersect. For the rest of Mrs. Dalloway, Clarissa's and Septimus's narratives are like opposing sides of a double helix, removed from each other, unfolding in parallel. Woolf wields the juxtaposition differently than you might expect: for example, she doesn't use the severity of Septimus's condition to indict Clarissa's party-planning as shallow and frivolous, nor does she use Clarissa's psychological "normalcy" to make Septimus seem freakish or pitiable. Instead, Woolf uses each character to lend the other complexity, to gently reveal what is shared between them.
For all their obvious differences, Septimus and Clarissa embrace a similar existential outlook, something Woolf teases throughout the novel but makes plain in the wake of his suicide. After hearing about the death, Clarissa seeks out an empty room to sort through the feelings it elicits: "Then (she had felt it only this morning) there was the terror; the overwhelming incapacity, one's parents giving it into one's hands, this life, to be lived to the end, to be walked with serenely; there was in the depths of her heart an awful fear... Somehow it was her disaster -- her disgrace. It was
her punishment to see sink and disappear here a man, there a woman, in
this profound darkness, and she forced to stand here in her evening
dress." For Clarissa, Septimus's death provokes empathetic sadness and self-preservational alarm, reactions that give dignity to his life and suffering without endorsing his actions. The novel takes on a core premise of humanity -- "the feeling they had of dissatisfaction; not knowing people; not being known," the knowledge that "one is alone" -- and shows two characters navigating that reality, using their disparate experiences to reflect on how we're connected to one another and what we owe to each other.
It's a great book, guys. And, of course, all of that is in the novel regardless of what it's titled. Mrs. Dalloway or The Hours -- the book is the book.
That said, every now and then, when I manage to come across people familiar with the novel, I tend to see Mrs. Dalloway described rather flippantly as a book about a lady throwing a party. This characterization is unfair to Clarissa (who makes brushes with feminist consciousness and flinches when a friend refers to her as the "perfect hostess") and disastrous for poor Septimus, whose prominent and tragic role gets totally forgotten. Re-branded as The Hours, I think the book would be getting a fairer shake.
Friday, December 20, 2019
Sunday, November 24, 2019
To make waves, to split seams
Last week, while sitting in my cubicle at Beige, Inc. and nearing the end of my morning cup of coffee, I felt a new sensation in my abdomen -- a gentle but distinct prodding from the inside out. It felt like one of my organs (maybe my spleen) had gained sentience, gone rogue, made its way close to my belly button, and was now attempting to locate an escape hatch. It felt like how a bubble looks when it rises rapidly and confidently to the waterline, ready to bust through the surface tension.
Until now, the fetus hadn't really made itself known. I'd only felt preliminary flutters, which were difficult to distinguish from run-of-the-mill intestinal burbles. (The official term for this barely-there fetal movement is "quickening," a midwifey sort of word that makes me feel a little like a loaf of bread.) The suddenness and decisiveness of that morning's kick (or elbow throw) took me by surprise. Even more than the ultrasound photos, or my slowly inflating balloon-belly, this struck me as proof that pregnancy is creating a second person, with independent needs and impulses, hanging out inside my first-person.
It was cool and eerie and satisfying. Since then, I've continued to greet these little spleeny karate moves with semi-amused wonder.
Guys, I'll be honest: pregnancy has mostly been a drag so far. Don't worry: I'm also excited and grateful and nervous and fascinated. Having a baby is something that GR and I hoped for and want. But when it comes to the bodily experience of being pregnant, my rating is "Meh," possibly even "Bleh."
My core complaint is totally predictable: Pregnancy is a nonstop cavalcade of physical limitations. There's the standard reduction in food and drink options. Knockout fatigue during the first few months had me going to bed at 8:30 and dragging GR home early from social things. I sleep worse and wake up with aches. After politely avoiding me during my teenage years, acne is now slapping me in the face. In a more recent development, intermittent sciatica has sent sharp, shooting pains into my right butt cheek.
Before getting pregnant, I didn't realize 1) how much of my week was organized around exercising, and 2) how much satisfaction and joy I derived from not merely working out, but working out hard -- sprinting, punishing my heart rate, pushing myself a little further past the limits I'd previously set for myself. These days, it's harder for me to find the energy to exercise, and when I do, the workouts are boring by necessity. (Can't let that heart rate get too high; don't want to risk an injury.) It speaks to a larger inconvenience: practically anything I do these days requires a moment or two of second-guessing: Is this safe? Is it advisable? Should I not? My world feels shrunk.
I know: Complaining isn't interesting, nor is it a good look. I have enough perspective to acknowledge that, at worst, pregnancy is nudging me into experiencing a decidedly mild form of temporary disability, and my petulance at these little-league inconveniences deserves, at best, a very small violin. Mine are the naive gripes of someone who has enjoyed ongoing health and luck. Complaining also isn't productive. (Rather than griping about feeling hemmed in, I could be doing more to redefine the boundaries around me. Surely there are different hobbies I could be pursuing to replace the canceled ones, less dull forms of exercise. (Also, certain veteran moms would like to ominously let me know If I think things are hard now, just wait until the baby arrives -- doomsdayish proclamations that are never as helpful as these women seem to hope.))
It's fine. Things are changing, and I'm figuring it out. (GR, too.) In the meantime, I treasure moments like last week's debut karate demonstration. I'm genuinely delighted by what I like to imagine is my little Rogue Spleen trying to help us out in this process, making the transition easier by asserting its presence, reminding me of the fact that we're in this together.
Until now, the fetus hadn't really made itself known. I'd only felt preliminary flutters, which were difficult to distinguish from run-of-the-mill intestinal burbles. (The official term for this barely-there fetal movement is "quickening," a midwifey sort of word that makes me feel a little like a loaf of bread.) The suddenness and decisiveness of that morning's kick (or elbow throw) took me by surprise. Even more than the ultrasound photos, or my slowly inflating balloon-belly, this struck me as proof that pregnancy is creating a second person, with independent needs and impulses, hanging out inside my first-person.
It was cool and eerie and satisfying. Since then, I've continued to greet these little spleeny karate moves with semi-amused wonder.
Guys, I'll be honest: pregnancy has mostly been a drag so far. Don't worry: I'm also excited and grateful and nervous and fascinated. Having a baby is something that GR and I hoped for and want. But when it comes to the bodily experience of being pregnant, my rating is "Meh," possibly even "Bleh."
My core complaint is totally predictable: Pregnancy is a nonstop cavalcade of physical limitations. There's the standard reduction in food and drink options. Knockout fatigue during the first few months had me going to bed at 8:30 and dragging GR home early from social things. I sleep worse and wake up with aches. After politely avoiding me during my teenage years, acne is now slapping me in the face. In a more recent development, intermittent sciatica has sent sharp, shooting pains into my right butt cheek.
Before getting pregnant, I didn't realize 1) how much of my week was organized around exercising, and 2) how much satisfaction and joy I derived from not merely working out, but working out hard -- sprinting, punishing my heart rate, pushing myself a little further past the limits I'd previously set for myself. These days, it's harder for me to find the energy to exercise, and when I do, the workouts are boring by necessity. (Can't let that heart rate get too high; don't want to risk an injury.) It speaks to a larger inconvenience: practically anything I do these days requires a moment or two of second-guessing: Is this safe? Is it advisable? Should I not? My world feels shrunk.
I know: Complaining isn't interesting, nor is it a good look. I have enough perspective to acknowledge that, at worst, pregnancy is nudging me into experiencing a decidedly mild form of temporary disability, and my petulance at these little-league inconveniences deserves, at best, a very small violin. Mine are the naive gripes of someone who has enjoyed ongoing health and luck. Complaining also isn't productive. (Rather than griping about feeling hemmed in, I could be doing more to redefine the boundaries around me. Surely there are different hobbies I could be pursuing to replace the canceled ones, less dull forms of exercise. (Also, certain veteran moms would like to ominously let me know If I think things are hard now, just wait until the baby arrives -- doomsdayish proclamations that are never as helpful as these women seem to hope.))
It's fine. Things are changing, and I'm figuring it out. (GR, too.) In the meantime, I treasure moments like last week's debut karate demonstration. I'm genuinely delighted by what I like to imagine is my little Rogue Spleen trying to help us out in this process, making the transition easier by asserting its presence, reminding me of the fact that we're in this together.
Friday, October 25, 2019
A better line of work
When I moved to Boston for grad school, I left behind an inoffensively bland office job -- one of those ubiquitous, middling white-collar jobs boasting an internal culture that feels suspiciously similar to Office Space. The building was beige. The cubicles were beige. The company was beige. The work itself was fine and even fun at times, and I liked my coworkers. But the pay was mediocre and, as a misclassified contract worker, I was working full-time-employee hours without any benefits and under the shadow of a significant tax burden. It was easy to leave and turn my face towards the shining sun of higher education. There were more things in store for me than were dreamt of in their TPS reports.
Of course, I didn't actually leave. I continued to work for Beige, Inc. on a part-time/remote basis throughout my tenure in grad school. It was a vital financial lifeline that filled the gap left behind by my insufficient PhD stipend. It was a job I could churn out in the background while pursing my more pressing goals.
And then, when I finished my program, achieved my goals, and discovered the academic job market to be as supportive and sustainable as the ice planet Hoth, Beige, Inc. was still there, waiting for me with open arms. In February, they offered me a full-time position with a salary and benefits package better than I'd get as a tenure-track professor and promptly promoted me to a managerial role.
The building and cubicles are still beige. The work is still fine and even fun at times, and I still like my coworkers. Now that I'm older and wiser, (Fun fact! All at once, about a year ago, cashiers started calling me ma'am), I appreciate the job as offering a line of work that utilizes my skills as an erstwhile teacher, researcher, and critic. I have a lot of flexibility and ample work/life balance.
Is this a professional success story? It might be. It sounds like it could be one.
The problem -- the source of my ambivalence, and the reason I keep beating this dead, angsty horse in posts like this one and this one and this one -- is that my PhD program, like pretty much all PhD programs in the humanities, equated professorship with success and was designed specifically to funnel you into a career in higher education. After you get your PhD, it's tenure or bust. Pursuing a career -- literally any career -- other than "college professor" is cutely referred to as the Alt-Ac route and is quietly understood to be the slush bucket destination for people not talented, driven, or persistent enough to hack it in the mean streets of academia.
It's an institutionally indoctrinated mindset, and one that is actively harmful in an age when even the MLA (organizational czar of the academic job market) is seeking to legitimize the "academia and industry are both cool options, guys" ethos that is already taken for granted in the sciences. It leaves people like me feeling un-tethered from reality, genuinely uncertain of what we want (or think we want) for our careers, or what "success" might look like outside of academia's monomaniacal model.
This is one of many reasons that being back in the offices of Beige, Inc. for the past six months has felt a little surreal. I'm not sure if I'm going to stay, or how I'm going to make that choice. Am I content? Is this working? I'm still in the process of deprogramming myself, developing the tools I need to check my own pulse.
Of course, I didn't actually leave. I continued to work for Beige, Inc. on a part-time/remote basis throughout my tenure in grad school. It was a vital financial lifeline that filled the gap left behind by my insufficient PhD stipend. It was a job I could churn out in the background while pursing my more pressing goals.
And then, when I finished my program, achieved my goals, and discovered the academic job market to be as supportive and sustainable as the ice planet Hoth, Beige, Inc. was still there, waiting for me with open arms. In February, they offered me a full-time position with a salary and benefits package better than I'd get as a tenure-track professor and promptly promoted me to a managerial role.
The building and cubicles are still beige. The work is still fine and even fun at times, and I still like my coworkers. Now that I'm older and wiser, (Fun fact! All at once, about a year ago, cashiers started calling me ma'am), I appreciate the job as offering a line of work that utilizes my skills as an erstwhile teacher, researcher, and critic. I have a lot of flexibility and ample work/life balance.
Is this a professional success story? It might be. It sounds like it could be one.
The problem -- the source of my ambivalence, and the reason I keep beating this dead, angsty horse in posts like this one and this one and this one -- is that my PhD program, like pretty much all PhD programs in the humanities, equated professorship with success and was designed specifically to funnel you into a career in higher education. After you get your PhD, it's tenure or bust. Pursuing a career -- literally any career -- other than "college professor" is cutely referred to as the Alt-Ac route and is quietly understood to be the slush bucket destination for people not talented, driven, or persistent enough to hack it in the mean streets of academia.
It's an institutionally indoctrinated mindset, and one that is actively harmful in an age when even the MLA (organizational czar of the academic job market) is seeking to legitimize the "academia and industry are both cool options, guys" ethos that is already taken for granted in the sciences. It leaves people like me feeling un-tethered from reality, genuinely uncertain of what we want (or think we want) for our careers, or what "success" might look like outside of academia's monomaniacal model.
This is one of many reasons that being back in the offices of Beige, Inc. for the past six months has felt a little surreal. I'm not sure if I'm going to stay, or how I'm going to make that choice. Am I content? Is this working? I'm still in the process of deprogramming myself, developing the tools I need to check my own pulse.
Wednesday, August 28, 2019
I'd say I take five out of six
If you ever want to rile up a college professor (particularly a younger one), ask how she feels about course evaluations. Like Comcast or Mitch McConnell, the course eval is a topic that almost no one feels lukewarm about and pretty much everyone outright loathes.
We all know why course evals exist. College students appreciate being given the opportunity to share feedback, and universities generally welcome their thoughts. Undergrads are adults who have over a decade of "being a student" experience to draw from, and they have direct, continuous access to their teacher's job performance. Surveying students is much easier (and cheaper) than implementing a review process that involves a third party.
(Now's as good a time as any to mention how continually shocked I was throughout the past several years by how little oversight my teaching received outside course evaluations. I went entire semesters -- including last fall, when I taught at a brand new school where no one knew who I was -- with no one other than myself vetting my syllabus or spot-checking my classes to ensure I wasn't doing anything crazy. I guess colleges have discovered that the people willing to lecture teens about Keats for poverty wages are generally try-hards who can be trusted not to abuse the position.)
In evaluations, students are typically asked to rate their professors on a 1-5 scale for qualities like openness, enthusiasm, knowledgeability, and fairness, while rating the class itself for qualities like difficulty, workload, interesting-ness, and overall likeability. This section generates bar graphs and other metrics that seem reassuringly science-y and objective.
Following the stats, students are inevitably invited to leave free-range comments about a course's strengths and weaknesses -- which is where real feelings are unleashed, and where the fantasy of the dispassionate course evaluation breaks down, as students are revealed to be, uh, imperfect judges of their own pedagogical experiences. Here, the difference between academic course evals and traditional job performance reviews becomes more glaring. The evaluation's Additional Comments section is a house of mirrors constructed out of half-formed thoughts and personal criticism. It's filled with a lot of glowing, ego-stroking praise ("One of the most interesting and engaging English classes I have ever taken!"; "Professor Martin is a great teacher"; "Professor really wants students to succeed, learn, understand, and enjoy the material") accompanied by a eye-catching smattering of hyperbolic grievances ("Sadly, I must look into the past to remember what it is that I used to love about English"; "Miss Martin has the classic new teacher syndrome where she feels the need to give bad grades to prove her worth as a challenging professor. Give her a few years to calm down."). Contradictions abound: the class was too easy and too hard; boring and fascinating. There was not enough and too much small-group work. Peculiarly, no matter what, nearly everyone answers "Yes" to the question, "Would you recommend this class to another student?"
It's a mess. But is it a useful mess? What are these things actually for?
They're not used to assess professors' performance -- not really, anyway. University administrators occasionally suggest that they scan course evaluations for red flags -- and I assume we're talking about, like, showing-up-drunk-to-class levels of incompetence -- but there's little evidence to support that actually happening. At best, admins use aggregated metrics to assess and brag about overall outcomes for the school: 92% of our student body give our teachers an "Excellent" rating! This makes evals valuable to university administration only in a Big Data kind of way, a form of 30,000-foot-view quality control. (It's worth noting that many academic departments do cop to using course evals during tenure reviews or hiring decisions for contingent faculty, but this practice has been widely revealed to be a pretty terrible idea.)
More often, probably, we imagine professors using evaluations personally, as self-improvement tools and to gather suggestions on how to tweak their courses. We may picture them reviewing their students' thoughtful commentary through sensible reading glasses, seated comfortably in a leather-backed chair, chewing pensively on a bulldog pipe. But, as you may guess from the snippets above, that image is... unrealistic. In my experience, older, wiser[, tenured] professors almost universally don't read their evals. For those who can't resist, unless you want to wildly un-calibrate your self-esteem, your best course of action is to glance over the evaluation document briefly to scan for obvious trends. (You don't want to see everyone concluding that your course was a breeze or that your grading standards are impossible.) Having checked that, you should promptly pack it away into the Raiders of the Lost Ark warehouse, never to be seen again.
Weirdly, on balance, I'm still in favor of course evaluations. I think their benefits -- limited as they are -- justify their existence. The jury's still out on whether more of these are in my future or not, but to date (and at the risk of sounding too much like Calvin's Dad), dealing with course evaluations has felt character-building. Knowing how to grapple with this strange genre of critique feels like a skill, in the same way that managing hecklers becomes a point of pride among stand-up comedians.
... That's not a very flattering comparison, but it still feels pretty apt.
We all know why course evals exist. College students appreciate being given the opportunity to share feedback, and universities generally welcome their thoughts. Undergrads are adults who have over a decade of "being a student" experience to draw from, and they have direct, continuous access to their teacher's job performance. Surveying students is much easier (and cheaper) than implementing a review process that involves a third party.
(Now's as good a time as any to mention how continually shocked I was throughout the past several years by how little oversight my teaching received outside course evaluations. I went entire semesters -- including last fall, when I taught at a brand new school where no one knew who I was -- with no one other than myself vetting my syllabus or spot-checking my classes to ensure I wasn't doing anything crazy. I guess colleges have discovered that the people willing to lecture teens about Keats for poverty wages are generally try-hards who can be trusted not to abuse the position.)
In evaluations, students are typically asked to rate their professors on a 1-5 scale for qualities like openness, enthusiasm, knowledgeability, and fairness, while rating the class itself for qualities like difficulty, workload, interesting-ness, and overall likeability. This section generates bar graphs and other metrics that seem reassuringly science-y and objective.
Following the stats, students are inevitably invited to leave free-range comments about a course's strengths and weaknesses -- which is where real feelings are unleashed, and where the fantasy of the dispassionate course evaluation breaks down, as students are revealed to be, uh, imperfect judges of their own pedagogical experiences. Here, the difference between academic course evals and traditional job performance reviews becomes more glaring. The evaluation's Additional Comments section is a house of mirrors constructed out of half-formed thoughts and personal criticism. It's filled with a lot of glowing, ego-stroking praise ("One of the most interesting and engaging English classes I have ever taken!"; "Professor Martin is a great teacher"; "Professor really wants students to succeed, learn, understand, and enjoy the material") accompanied by a eye-catching smattering of hyperbolic grievances ("Sadly, I must look into the past to remember what it is that I used to love about English"; "Miss Martin has the classic new teacher syndrome where she feels the need to give bad grades to prove her worth as a challenging professor. Give her a few years to calm down."). Contradictions abound: the class was too easy and too hard; boring and fascinating. There was not enough and too much small-group work. Peculiarly, no matter what, nearly everyone answers "Yes" to the question, "Would you recommend this class to another student?"
It's a mess. But is it a useful mess? What are these things actually for?
They're not used to assess professors' performance -- not really, anyway. University administrators occasionally suggest that they scan course evaluations for red flags -- and I assume we're talking about, like, showing-up-drunk-to-class levels of incompetence -- but there's little evidence to support that actually happening. At best, admins use aggregated metrics to assess and brag about overall outcomes for the school: 92% of our student body give our teachers an "Excellent" rating! This makes evals valuable to university administration only in a Big Data kind of way, a form of 30,000-foot-view quality control. (It's worth noting that many academic departments do cop to using course evals during tenure reviews or hiring decisions for contingent faculty, but this practice has been widely revealed to be a pretty terrible idea.)
More often, probably, we imagine professors using evaluations personally, as self-improvement tools and to gather suggestions on how to tweak their courses. We may picture them reviewing their students' thoughtful commentary through sensible reading glasses, seated comfortably in a leather-backed chair, chewing pensively on a bulldog pipe. But, as you may guess from the snippets above, that image is... unrealistic. In my experience, older, wiser[, tenured] professors almost universally don't read their evals. For those who can't resist, unless you want to wildly un-calibrate your self-esteem, your best course of action is to glance over the evaluation document briefly to scan for obvious trends. (You don't want to see everyone concluding that your course was a breeze or that your grading standards are impossible.) Having checked that, you should promptly pack it away into the Raiders of the Lost Ark warehouse, never to be seen again.
Weirdly, on balance, I'm still in favor of course evaluations. I think their benefits -- limited as they are -- justify their existence. The jury's still out on whether more of these are in my future or not, but to date (and at the risk of sounding too much like Calvin's Dad), dealing with course evaluations has felt character-building. Knowing how to grapple with this strange genre of critique feels like a skill, in the same way that managing hecklers becomes a point of pride among stand-up comedians.
... That's not a very flattering comparison, but it still feels pretty apt.
Friday, July 19, 2019
Don't speak too soon, for the wheel's still in spin
My dad served in the Navy from 1962 to 1968, and he's told me a handful of stories about his time in the service. This one is my favorite. I do not remember when or why Dad told it to me, and I'll undoubtedly get it wrong in the retelling:
The rule was, sailors had to be clean-shaven -- unless you were wearing a mustache when you got the photo for your military ID taken. In that case, a [dignified, properly maintained] mustache was allowed.
Dad was clean-shaven when he joined the Navy. But somewhere along the line, he decided that he wanted to grow a mustache. He asked his Commanding Officer about it. His CO told him it wasn't allowed: Dad's photo ID featured him with a bare upper lip. If he grew a mustache, it would no longer match his ID. Chaos would ensue. You understand how it is. No mustache for Dad.
Dad accepted his CO's explanation. Meanwhile, he schemed.
Some undisclosed time later, Dad's destroyer docked along the California coast, and he got a short leave off-ship. Dad had been waiting for this moment, and he executed his plan with the seamless efficiency of Ocean's Eleven: He deliberately lost his ID, spent his leave diligently growing a mustache, and arranged to get a new photo ID -- with a fresh photo -- right before returning to his ship. He got a couple of raised eyebrows but no questions as he re-boarded. Dad felt rather proud of himself: he got what he wanted and abided by the letter of the law in the process.
The CO noticed the mustache immediately. Reminding Dad about their conversation, the CO ordered him to shave it off.
Dad triumphantly showed the CO his new photo ID.
The CO wasn't having it. Dad was obliged to shave. For some time after, his face didn't match his ID.
The rule was, sailors had to be clean-shaven -- unless you were wearing a mustache when you got the photo for your military ID taken. In that case, a [dignified, properly maintained] mustache was allowed.
Dad was clean-shaven when he joined the Navy. But somewhere along the line, he decided that he wanted to grow a mustache. He asked his Commanding Officer about it. His CO told him it wasn't allowed: Dad's photo ID featured him with a bare upper lip. If he grew a mustache, it would no longer match his ID. Chaos would ensue. You understand how it is. No mustache for Dad.
Dad accepted his CO's explanation. Meanwhile, he schemed.
Some undisclosed time later, Dad's destroyer docked along the California coast, and he got a short leave off-ship. Dad had been waiting for this moment, and he executed his plan with the seamless efficiency of Ocean's Eleven: He deliberately lost his ID, spent his leave diligently growing a mustache, and arranged to get a new photo ID -- with a fresh photo -- right before returning to his ship. He got a couple of raised eyebrows but no questions as he re-boarded. Dad felt rather proud of himself: he got what he wanted and abided by the letter of the law in the process.
The CO noticed the mustache immediately. Reminding Dad about their conversation, the CO ordered him to shave it off.
Dad triumphantly showed the CO his new photo ID.
The CO wasn't having it. Dad was obliged to shave. For some time after, his face didn't match his ID.
Sunday, April 28, 2019
A simple space to rest my head
On Attempting to Buy a House:
If I had to list my top three personality flaws (as in, the primary things I'd say I need to "work on," were I the kind of person to use therapy lingo), I'd say they were: impatience, control-freak-ism, and being overly critical. The Hermione Granger suite of flaws, if you will. I've had these tendencies since I was a kid; these days, they don't tend to cause me a lot of trouble. Life has organically sanded off their sharpest edges.
That said, the home-buying process has caused all three of these proclivities to flare up like gout. There's so much waiting (for sellers, for underwriters, for appraisers). It invoked my inner Veruca Salt like nothing has in well over a decade. And there are so many moving parts begging for my micro-management! So many fallible players and set-pieces deliciously vulnerable to my criticism! It's a problem.
It's a problem, in part, because there's a lot of mixed messaging about the "right" way to go about buying a house.
On one hand, you're advised to trust the system. There are entire industries dedicated to helping newbies like us navigate the process. Real estate agencies, law offices, and mortgage brokers expect to work with anxious, bewildered people who have no idea what they're doing, and the industries organize themselves to be mostly idiot-proof. They've done this a million times. Assuming you've hired a bang-up team of professionals, you can trust them to carry you through: all you have to do is tell them what you want, respond to their emails, and sign on the dotted line.
On the other hand, you're also cautioned that trusting anyone when buying a house is wildly irresponsible. You hear horror stories of predatory lenders, bribed inspectors, unscrupulous appraisers and agents, people willing to say or do anything to get the deal closed. Never take recommendations at face value. Read every clause. Get second and third opinions. Be proactive; don't simply assume the process will work. Any lapses along the way will immediately result in you purchasing a termite-ridden murder house with a subprime mortgage and no fewer than four (4) poltergeists.
So, it depends on perspective. Maybe my being especially impatient/controlling/critical is a little crazy, making me a pest to the teams of good people who are just trying to do their jobs and help me own a home. Or maybe it makes me crazy like a fox. Maybe all of my fevered research and question-asking and follow-up calls are actually essential to us avoiding a real estate disaster.
More realistically, it's both, and neither.
- - - -
I've learned that people are always complaining about property taxes because the method for calculating them is extremely complicated and also extremely variable. They can go up or down a lot year over year for many reasons that are difficult to pin down and over which you have very little control. I get it now! I humbly accept your congratulations.
- - - -
Choosing a house to buy is a major decision, and I think when a decision is major, you want to be reassured that you're not only making a good choice, but the best choice, the correct choice. If you're putting tens of thousands of dollars and a chunk of your financial future on the line, you're not necessarily going to be satisfied with the idea that your decision was just, like, fine. It's maddening to think that there might have been a better decision out there, unmade.
I think this is why, after people buy houses, they tend to start talking about the whole ordeal in the grandiose language of destiny. When an offer on a house falls through, it "wasn't meant to be." Merely adequate houses get transformed into dream homes through the power of retrospect: imperfections get redefined as charming idiosyncrasies that make a house "perfect for us."
Frankly, there's a lot of truth to this: I think houses become homes in the same way couples become soulmates. GR and I have playfully agreed that we weren't soulmates when we started dating, but we certainly are now: ten years of partnership have transformed our initial compatibility into a truly unique bond. With houses and people, there's no single "right" choice, but choices become right in the rear-view mirror, once time and effort have made them right.
(I believe this particular type of angst also tends to be more common among first-time home buyers, who [like me] tend to see house purchases as permanent decisions [thus the marriage metaphor], while people who've been around the block a few times view house-buying as more akin to dating: serious-ish but readily undo-able.)
Thinking about this has helped me put some of my anxieties and doubts to rest as we move towards closing. The house we buy doesn't have to be perfect. As long as we like it and it doesn't hobble us financially, we can chalk it up as a win. Our minds will make it perfect later.
- - - -
I'm encouraged by the fact that the overall arc of this process is trending upward. The farther along we've gotten, the more enjoyable things have become.
I found house-hunting to be a bit of a slog. But once we set our sights on a house, my creative imagination began to run wild. I immediately had license to indulge all my dormant techie/HGTV impulses. I've already planned a wall color scheme and potential floor plans, researched and plotted DIY projects, lined up potential carpeting companies, and outlined a budget for furniture purchases. I went down a number of Google rabbit holes in an effort to learn all about the particular fixtures and features in the house. (Ask me about Bulldog Pushmatic circuit breakers!) I didn't realize how much I'd missed being a hobbyist handyman.
House-buying veterans tend to warn you about the unpleasant surprises associated with homeownership: appliances that break down, unexpected expenses, Mrs. Kravitz-y neighbors. While these sorts of things are undoubtedly in our future, right now we're also dwelling in the excitement of exploration, the sheer joy of learning and doing new things. When we look back on this moment, I hope to remember it as fun.
If I had to list my top three personality flaws (as in, the primary things I'd say I need to "work on," were I the kind of person to use therapy lingo), I'd say they were: impatience, control-freak-ism, and being overly critical. The Hermione Granger suite of flaws, if you will. I've had these tendencies since I was a kid; these days, they don't tend to cause me a lot of trouble. Life has organically sanded off their sharpest edges.
That said, the home-buying process has caused all three of these proclivities to flare up like gout. There's so much waiting (for sellers, for underwriters, for appraisers). It invoked my inner Veruca Salt like nothing has in well over a decade. And there are so many moving parts begging for my micro-management! So many fallible players and set-pieces deliciously vulnerable to my criticism! It's a problem.
It's a problem, in part, because there's a lot of mixed messaging about the "right" way to go about buying a house.
On one hand, you're advised to trust the system. There are entire industries dedicated to helping newbies like us navigate the process. Real estate agencies, law offices, and mortgage brokers expect to work with anxious, bewildered people who have no idea what they're doing, and the industries organize themselves to be mostly idiot-proof. They've done this a million times. Assuming you've hired a bang-up team of professionals, you can trust them to carry you through: all you have to do is tell them what you want, respond to their emails, and sign on the dotted line.
On the other hand, you're also cautioned that trusting anyone when buying a house is wildly irresponsible. You hear horror stories of predatory lenders, bribed inspectors, unscrupulous appraisers and agents, people willing to say or do anything to get the deal closed. Never take recommendations at face value. Read every clause. Get second and third opinions. Be proactive; don't simply assume the process will work. Any lapses along the way will immediately result in you purchasing a termite-ridden murder house with a subprime mortgage and no fewer than four (4) poltergeists.
So, it depends on perspective. Maybe my being especially impatient/controlling/critical is a little crazy, making me a pest to the teams of good people who are just trying to do their jobs and help me own a home. Or maybe it makes me crazy like a fox. Maybe all of my fevered research and question-asking and follow-up calls are actually essential to us avoiding a real estate disaster.
More realistically, it's both, and neither.
- - - -
I've learned that people are always complaining about property taxes because the method for calculating them is extremely complicated and also extremely variable. They can go up or down a lot year over year for many reasons that are difficult to pin down and over which you have very little control. I get it now! I humbly accept your congratulations.
- - - -
Choosing a house to buy is a major decision, and I think when a decision is major, you want to be reassured that you're not only making a good choice, but the best choice, the correct choice. If you're putting tens of thousands of dollars and a chunk of your financial future on the line, you're not necessarily going to be satisfied with the idea that your decision was just, like, fine. It's maddening to think that there might have been a better decision out there, unmade.
I think this is why, after people buy houses, they tend to start talking about the whole ordeal in the grandiose language of destiny. When an offer on a house falls through, it "wasn't meant to be." Merely adequate houses get transformed into dream homes through the power of retrospect: imperfections get redefined as charming idiosyncrasies that make a house "perfect for us."
Frankly, there's a lot of truth to this: I think houses become homes in the same way couples become soulmates. GR and I have playfully agreed that we weren't soulmates when we started dating, but we certainly are now: ten years of partnership have transformed our initial compatibility into a truly unique bond. With houses and people, there's no single "right" choice, but choices become right in the rear-view mirror, once time and effort have made them right.
(I believe this particular type of angst also tends to be more common among first-time home buyers, who [like me] tend to see house purchases as permanent decisions [thus the marriage metaphor], while people who've been around the block a few times view house-buying as more akin to dating: serious-ish but readily undo-able.)
Thinking about this has helped me put some of my anxieties and doubts to rest as we move towards closing. The house we buy doesn't have to be perfect. As long as we like it and it doesn't hobble us financially, we can chalk it up as a win. Our minds will make it perfect later.
- - - -
I'm encouraged by the fact that the overall arc of this process is trending upward. The farther along we've gotten, the more enjoyable things have become.
I found house-hunting to be a bit of a slog. But once we set our sights on a house, my creative imagination began to run wild. I immediately had license to indulge all my dormant techie/HGTV impulses. I've already planned a wall color scheme and potential floor plans, researched and plotted DIY projects, lined up potential carpeting companies, and outlined a budget for furniture purchases. I went down a number of Google rabbit holes in an effort to learn all about the particular fixtures and features in the house. (Ask me about Bulldog Pushmatic circuit breakers!) I didn't realize how much I'd missed being a hobbyist handyman.
House-buying veterans tend to warn you about the unpleasant surprises associated with homeownership: appliances that break down, unexpected expenses, Mrs. Kravitz-y neighbors. While these sorts of things are undoubtedly in our future, right now we're also dwelling in the excitement of exploration, the sheer joy of learning and doing new things. When we look back on this moment, I hope to remember it as fun.
Wednesday, March 20, 2019
Now or never now, now, now
Briefly Appreciating the Small Things with Linda
Today's topic: Signage on the highway
I like thinking about the person who chose the Pantone 348 Forest Green background color of all the mile markers, exits, and interstate signs. It must have been someone's job, and I wonder if they picked green as a small apology to nature. ("Sorry for paving dirty asphalt stripes all over your face, Earth. From now on we'll try to blend in.") I like thinking about how long it would take me, personally, to install a single exit sign, to jam the rod in the ground at a remarkably accurate perpendicular and bolt on the sheet metal face securely enough to survive a tornado. It causes me to notice the sheer number of signs on the road and how elegantly they're coordinated, the comforting pacing of the two mile, one mile, half mile, and quarter mile warnings before every exit. My favorite road signs -- and the ones most likely to become a point of conversation in the car -- are the unnecessary ones: signs that let you know the name of the lake to your right, or that the next exit will take you to the local community college. When the highway slides under an overpass, a sign is usually there to tell you the name of the crossing road, even though you can't get to it. Signs like that aren't vital; even in the pre-GPS days, we could all get by without them. But they're courteous. They give you a firmer sense of place and help you get to your destination with fewer errors and less grumbling.
(I like the fact that, in doing some curious-minded research for this post, I discovered not only that all our highway signs use a standardized front developed by the U.S. government called Highway Gothic, but also that there was a challenger font called Clearview that was introduced but never quite caught on, much to the chagrin of Clearview supporters, who exist.)
Today's topic: Signage on the highway
I like thinking about the person who chose the Pantone 348 Forest Green background color of all the mile markers, exits, and interstate signs. It must have been someone's job, and I wonder if they picked green as a small apology to nature. ("Sorry for paving dirty asphalt stripes all over your face, Earth. From now on we'll try to blend in.") I like thinking about how long it would take me, personally, to install a single exit sign, to jam the rod in the ground at a remarkably accurate perpendicular and bolt on the sheet metal face securely enough to survive a tornado. It causes me to notice the sheer number of signs on the road and how elegantly they're coordinated, the comforting pacing of the two mile, one mile, half mile, and quarter mile warnings before every exit. My favorite road signs -- and the ones most likely to become a point of conversation in the car -- are the unnecessary ones: signs that let you know the name of the lake to your right, or that the next exit will take you to the local community college. When the highway slides under an overpass, a sign is usually there to tell you the name of the crossing road, even though you can't get to it. Signs like that aren't vital; even in the pre-GPS days, we could all get by without them. But they're courteous. They give you a firmer sense of place and help you get to your destination with fewer errors and less grumbling.
(I like the fact that, in doing some curious-minded research for this post, I discovered not only that all our highway signs use a standardized front developed by the U.S. government called Highway Gothic, but also that there was a challenger font called Clearview that was introduced but never quite caught on, much to the chagrin of Clearview supporters, who exist.)
Tuesday, February 5, 2019
Get ahead, get her hand and bring her with you
Sometime in 2008, I bought this poster. While most of the wall-hangings I bought ten years ago have come and gone, this one has been a mainstay I've carried with me from apartment to apartment: it hung in my bedrooms in Bloomington and Edgewater, in the hallway of my Boston studio, in the kitchen of our Boston two-bed, and now hangs in our hallway bathroom.
This shouty recruitment ad was created by illustrator Howard Chandler Christy in 1917. The text of the poster is supposedly a real quote from a woman named Bernice Smith, whom Christy overheard outside a recruiting office.
My love for this poster was so immediate and visceral it never occurred to me that other people would find it weird. Most of my apartment-visitors don't ask about it, but those who have over the years are pretty much unanimously confused (e.g., "So... you really like the Navy?" or most recently, "Why is there a poster saying BE A MAN AND DO IT hanging over your toilet?").
Again, I find the poster so obviously wonderful that the flummoxed reactions always take me by surprise. I've never had a good response. I usually default to, "I think it's funny," which is accurate in a broad, hand-wavy sense. (Funny doesn't just mean humorous, but also peculiar, odd, off-putting, intriguing. Surely my feelings fall somewhere under that expansive umbrella?) I'll also mention semi-apologetically that World War I and gender/feminism are two of my biggest pet interests, so...?
But I can do better than that:
Take another look at Christy's ad, using your snootiest media criticism googles. Obviously the point of the poster (the text) is "Yo, menfolk, join the Navy," but how would you break down the emotional appeal being made (the subtext)? The poster is clearly drawing on the audience's feelings about masculinity/femininity to make its argument ("I wish I were a man"; "BE A MAN AND DO IT"), but in what way? Does it succeed?
It's worth remembering that recruitment posters, especially circa WWI, were typically pretty rigid when it came to gender roles: consider "Women of Britain say GO!" or "Women-Folk Worth Defending" or "Destroy this Mad Brute" or "Fall In." The visual messaging in those posters is not subtle (superliminal, if you will) and strikingly consistent. Men are strong-jawed heroes in uniform who protect the homeland; women are the imperiled assets in need of protection. Masculinity becomes synonymous with military service: enlisting means you're a man, while failing to enlist means you're a sexually insufficient sissy -- womanish, even. Bleh!
A through-line here is that men and women are supposed to want completely different things for themselves. Men want to shoot guns and ride horses and make theirs but to do and die. Women want to hang back and devote themselves to caretaking and supporting and rationing. Never the twain shall meet.
Back to Christy's poster. Let's parse the subtext of its most prominent features:
What I love about this poster is that, while you intuitively understand the message Christy was trying to send ("Men: join the Navy because women think it's sexy and also it's the manly thing to do"), the whole thing is actually a hot mess. Every aspect of it unintentionally contradicts or warps the gender stereotypes it's trying to exploit. It's a gloriously weird distillation of mixed gender messaging and confused sexuality.
If you're still puzzled about why having that image around brings me joy, I can't do much else other than shrug. If you're ever at my apartment and ask about the poster, I'll tell you the truth: I think it's funny.
This shouty recruitment ad was created by illustrator Howard Chandler Christy in 1917. The text of the poster is supposedly a real quote from a woman named Bernice Smith, whom Christy overheard outside a recruiting office.
My love for this poster was so immediate and visceral it never occurred to me that other people would find it weird. Most of my apartment-visitors don't ask about it, but those who have over the years are pretty much unanimously confused (e.g., "So... you really like the Navy?" or most recently, "Why is there a poster saying BE A MAN AND DO IT hanging over your toilet?").
Again, I find the poster so obviously wonderful that the flummoxed reactions always take me by surprise. I've never had a good response. I usually default to, "I think it's funny," which is accurate in a broad, hand-wavy sense. (Funny doesn't just mean humorous, but also peculiar, odd, off-putting, intriguing. Surely my feelings fall somewhere under that expansive umbrella?) I'll also mention semi-apologetically that World War I and gender/feminism are two of my biggest pet interests, so...?
But I can do better than that:
Take another look at Christy's ad, using your snootiest media criticism googles. Obviously the point of the poster (the text) is "Yo, menfolk, join the Navy," but how would you break down the emotional appeal being made (the subtext)? The poster is clearly drawing on the audience's feelings about masculinity/femininity to make its argument ("I wish I were a man"; "BE A MAN AND DO IT"), but in what way? Does it succeed?
It's worth remembering that recruitment posters, especially circa WWI, were typically pretty rigid when it came to gender roles: consider "Women of Britain say GO!" or "Women-Folk Worth Defending" or "Destroy this Mad Brute" or "Fall In." The visual messaging in those posters is not subtle (superliminal, if you will) and strikingly consistent. Men are strong-jawed heroes in uniform who protect the homeland; women are the imperiled assets in need of protection. Masculinity becomes synonymous with military service: enlisting means you're a man, while failing to enlist means you're a sexually insufficient sissy -- womanish, even. Bleh!
A through-line here is that men and women are supposed to want completely different things for themselves. Men want to shoot guns and ride horses and make theirs but to do and die. Women want to hang back and devote themselves to caretaking and supporting and rationing. Never the twain shall meet.
Back to Christy's poster. Let's parse the subtext of its most prominent features:
"Gee!! I wish I were a man, I'd join the Navy": This attractive woman wants to be a sailor. Being a sailor is something pretty ladies want to do.That's... something.
"BE A MAN AND DO IT": To be a man, you need to be like this pretty lady, or at least follow her example. Manhood means stepping up to carry out the tasks that women can't accomplish themselves.
Lady in sailor's uniform: This well-known symbol of masculinity -- the thing that separates the manly fighter from those yellow-bellied civilian wimps -- is represented here in an androgynously sexy way reminiscent of drag. She's intentionally alluring, but also, the graphic positioning of the text encourages you to imagine this woman as "A MAN."
What I love about this poster is that, while you intuitively understand the message Christy was trying to send ("Men: join the Navy because women think it's sexy and also it's the manly thing to do"), the whole thing is actually a hot mess. Every aspect of it unintentionally contradicts or warps the gender stereotypes it's trying to exploit. It's a gloriously weird distillation of mixed gender messaging and confused sexuality.
If you're still puzzled about why having that image around brings me joy, I can't do much else other than shrug. If you're ever at my apartment and ask about the poster, I'll tell you the truth: I think it's funny.
Wednesday, January 2, 2019
Oh, stay with me instead
I bought my copy of Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace from a used bookstore in Evanston back in 2011. The book had apparently been living on a sunbaked shelf for a while, because by the time I purchased it, the in-your-face DayGlo orange spine of the massive paperback had faded to "jaundiced Norwegian."
(The cover damage was OK with me. I've been told that Infinite Jest is a book that a certain type of person -- who in my imagination is also an unironic ascot wearer and self-taught mixologist -- purchases for his shelves ornamentally, just so he can appear to be the kind of hip dude who reads giant postmodern novels. When it comes to how visitors react to my books, Infinite Jest is probably the least of my worries, but still, I was content not to have the telltale orange spine screaming out from my bookcase.)
I really like Wallace's writing, so I was itching to check out Infinite Jest, which everyone agrees is his masterpiece. But instead the novel wound up sitting inertly on my shelf for seven years. I had a lot of other reading and writing to do during that period and didn't have the bandwidth to take on such a brick and finish it promptly. (Slowly chipping away at a book doesn't work for me; I don't feel like I'm able to properly internalize the novelist's intended pacing and form unless I read steadily and keep the whole thing in my mind. (I understand if you now feel the urge to give me a wedgie.))
I finally had time to take a crack at it in 2018, the Year of Postdoc. It still took a while: I started in March and finished sometime late in the summer.
Did you know that Infinite Jest takes place in Boston? I didn't. And not just Boston: a majority of the novel is set in the same neighborhood (Allston-Brighton), and even the same half-mile section of neighborhood (Comm Ave, fanning out from the Warren St. stop) where I lived. Wallace's style of writing has been called encyclopedic, and whole pages of the novel are lovingly devoted to describing the streets around my old apartment in grubby, familiar detail: the "quarter-hourly trundle and ding" of the Green Line, the “complexly decaying grounds of Enfield Marine" (a.k.a. Brighton Marine, home to my doctor and dentist offices), the "crammed-together triple-decker houses" that have been "carved up inside into apartments for like alienated B.U. students" or "even more alienated B.C. students."
I don't think being Hal Incandenza's neighbor made me enjoy Infinite Jest any more or less than I otherwise would've, but I'm still glad I procrastinated seven years before reading it. It felt good to read the novel as I was moving away, having it take me on some last imaginative walks through the neighborhood. The timing was coincidental, but it was one of those comforting coincidences that make you feel like you're on time.
---
Predictions of Varying Certainty for 2018:
- Let's pack all the big stuff into to one: GR and I will move back to the Chicagoland area, landing in an apartment in a near-enough suburb that makes it easy for GR to access the city for remote work, but is also conveniently near to the college where I'll be adjunct-teaching.
- Before we go, I'll make a Bucket List of Things to Do in Boston That I Always Meant to Do But Never Got Around To -- Until Now!. I'll achieve approximately 50% of the Bucket List items.
- We'll buy a car. My guess is that it'll be a mid-2010s Mazda sedan, or else a mid-2010s Honda Fit.
- I'll go on the academic job market again in the fall, giving The Dream another go.
- We'll visit Sydney and see Drew. I will have at least one experience there that will make me think, "Oh, so Australia really is like that."
- I will publish at least one academic article and present work at a conference.
- Inspired by this transitional moment in my life, I'll reinvest in one of my former hobbies with renewed interest (possibilities include: graphite/charcoal drawing, rock climbing, concert-going, flute playing, frequent blogging).
- Babysitting will cease to alarm me and will instead become a regular part of my existence. No children will be harmed in the fulfillment of this prediction.
How prescient I actually was:
- Pretty close! Move to the midwest? Check. GR's remote work? Check. Adjunct teaching gig? Check. But we moved to Chicago; the suburbs haven't claimed us yet.
- This was failing-upwards situation, in that I exceeded expectations and achieved more like 75% of Bucket List items, including attending a Bruins game (fun!) and kayaking on the Charles (arduous!).
- Called it. We're now the proud owners of a 2015 Mazda3 hatchback. It's brown. I named it Worcester.
- Check. Similar results as last year.
- Before going to Sydney, I occasionally doubted that the trip would manage to justify the excruciating, 24-hour-each-way plane rides necessary to make it happen. But reader, it did, and I will treasure the memories forever. Except for the memories of the giant-ass spiders that build Shelob-caliber webs in every available outdoor nook and cranny. (Australia really is like that!)
- Kind of. I got an article accepted into a book that'll be published in 2019, and got a paper accepted into a conference that will occur four days into 2019. So this was a rebuilding year of sorts for my academic credentials.
- Does re-dabbling in several dormant hobbies count? I went rock climbing once, attended two concerts (with a third on the docket), started taking YouTube lessons on the acoustic guitar, and increased my blogging rate by about 50%.
- Not really: I babysat precisely once, two weeks ago. On the bright side, everyone survived.
Predictions of Varying Certainty for 2019:
- GR and I will re-up the lease on our apartment, partly because we like our current pad but mostly because we don't want to have to move again already. We'll start making tentative, slouching moves towards homeownership (including but not limited to my figuring out why everyone is always complaining about property taxes).
- I'll get a full-time job. I'll also go on the academic job market again in the fall, for the third and maybe final time.
- I'll visit a new state, and/or explore a new major city of a state I've already visited.
- I'll keep working at those guitar lessons. I won't be consistent about practicing and will remain firmly at novice level, but I'll make some progress.
- GR and I will see Hamilton, courtesy of Broadway in Chicago.
- [Insert an extensive amount of angsty dithering about how or whether I should include on this list the don't-get-excited-it's-still-TBD possibility of GR and I "starting a family," which will likely become the subject of its own blog post. (The angsty dithering, that is. Why does it feel so fraught?)]
(The cover damage was OK with me. I've been told that Infinite Jest is a book that a certain type of person -- who in my imagination is also an unironic ascot wearer and self-taught mixologist -- purchases for his shelves ornamentally, just so he can appear to be the kind of hip dude who reads giant postmodern novels. When it comes to how visitors react to my books, Infinite Jest is probably the least of my worries, but still, I was content not to have the telltale orange spine screaming out from my bookcase.)
I really like Wallace's writing, so I was itching to check out Infinite Jest, which everyone agrees is his masterpiece. But instead the novel wound up sitting inertly on my shelf for seven years. I had a lot of other reading and writing to do during that period and didn't have the bandwidth to take on such a brick and finish it promptly. (Slowly chipping away at a book doesn't work for me; I don't feel like I'm able to properly internalize the novelist's intended pacing and form unless I read steadily and keep the whole thing in my mind. (I understand if you now feel the urge to give me a wedgie.))
I finally had time to take a crack at it in 2018, the Year of Postdoc. It still took a while: I started in March and finished sometime late in the summer.
Did you know that Infinite Jest takes place in Boston? I didn't. And not just Boston: a majority of the novel is set in the same neighborhood (Allston-Brighton), and even the same half-mile section of neighborhood (Comm Ave, fanning out from the Warren St. stop) where I lived. Wallace's style of writing has been called encyclopedic, and whole pages of the novel are lovingly devoted to describing the streets around my old apartment in grubby, familiar detail: the "quarter-hourly trundle and ding" of the Green Line, the “complexly decaying grounds of Enfield Marine" (a.k.a. Brighton Marine, home to my doctor and dentist offices), the "crammed-together triple-decker houses" that have been "carved up inside into apartments for like alienated B.U. students" or "even more alienated B.C. students."
I don't think being Hal Incandenza's neighbor made me enjoy Infinite Jest any more or less than I otherwise would've, but I'm still glad I procrastinated seven years before reading it. It felt good to read the novel as I was moving away, having it take me on some last imaginative walks through the neighborhood. The timing was coincidental, but it was one of those comforting coincidences that make you feel like you're on time.
---
Predictions of Varying Certainty for 2018:
- Let's pack all the big stuff into to one: GR and I will move back to the Chicagoland area, landing in an apartment in a near-enough suburb that makes it easy for GR to access the city for remote work, but is also conveniently near to the college where I'll be adjunct-teaching.
- Before we go, I'll make a Bucket List of Things to Do in Boston That I Always Meant to Do But Never Got Around To -- Until Now!. I'll achieve approximately 50% of the Bucket List items.
- We'll buy a car. My guess is that it'll be a mid-2010s Mazda sedan, or else a mid-2010s Honda Fit.
- I'll go on the academic job market again in the fall, giving The Dream another go.
- We'll visit Sydney and see Drew. I will have at least one experience there that will make me think, "Oh, so Australia really is like that."
- I will publish at least one academic article and present work at a conference.
- Inspired by this transitional moment in my life, I'll reinvest in one of my former hobbies with renewed interest (possibilities include: graphite/charcoal drawing, rock climbing, concert-going, flute playing, frequent blogging).
- Babysitting will cease to alarm me and will instead become a regular part of my existence. No children will be harmed in the fulfillment of this prediction.
How prescient I actually was:
- Pretty close! Move to the midwest? Check. GR's remote work? Check. Adjunct teaching gig? Check. But we moved to Chicago; the suburbs haven't claimed us yet.
- This was failing-upwards situation, in that I exceeded expectations and achieved more like 75% of Bucket List items, including attending a Bruins game (fun!) and kayaking on the Charles (arduous!).
- Called it. We're now the proud owners of a 2015 Mazda3 hatchback. It's brown. I named it Worcester.
- Check. Similar results as last year.
- Before going to Sydney, I occasionally doubted that the trip would manage to justify the excruciating, 24-hour-each-way plane rides necessary to make it happen. But reader, it did, and I will treasure the memories forever. Except for the memories of the giant-ass spiders that build Shelob-caliber webs in every available outdoor nook and cranny. (Australia really is like that!)
- Kind of. I got an article accepted into a book that'll be published in 2019, and got a paper accepted into a conference that will occur four days into 2019. So this was a rebuilding year of sorts for my academic credentials.
- Does re-dabbling in several dormant hobbies count? I went rock climbing once, attended two concerts (with a third on the docket), started taking YouTube lessons on the acoustic guitar, and increased my blogging rate by about 50%.
- Not really: I babysat precisely once, two weeks ago. On the bright side, everyone survived.
Predictions of Varying Certainty for 2019:
- GR and I will re-up the lease on our apartment, partly because we like our current pad but mostly because we don't want to have to move again already. We'll start making tentative, slouching moves towards homeownership (including but not limited to my figuring out why everyone is always complaining about property taxes).
- I'll get a full-time job. I'll also go on the academic job market again in the fall, for the third and maybe final time.
- I'll visit a new state, and/or explore a new major city of a state I've already visited.
- I'll keep working at those guitar lessons. I won't be consistent about practicing and will remain firmly at novice level, but I'll make some progress.
- GR and I will see Hamilton, courtesy of Broadway in Chicago.
- [Insert an extensive amount of angsty dithering about how or whether I should include on this list the don't-get-excited-it's-still-TBD possibility of GR and I "starting a family," which will likely become the subject of its own blog post. (The angsty dithering, that is. Why does it feel so fraught?)]
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