Academia as an Extreme Sport

I smell of salt and sand and sea, of musky smoke and fire and burning cloth and singed hair. My feet are blistered, my throat hoarse from laughing in all the smoke. And I am utterly exhausted, delighted, happy.

Jacob took a group of us to the beach this evening; we had decent Indian food for dinner, then parked downtown and walked to the Boardwalk. We hung out with the sea lions, broke into small groups to talk, watched people get sneezed on by sea lions (not me, for I move faster than a sea lion sneeze… but oh, poor OCD Emily…), then wandered past the amusement park to another beach to watch the fireworks.

These were not city-sanctioned fireworks. No, these were people spend hundreds, if not thousands, at fireworks stands, and set them off on the beach. And we, through what kind of luck who knows, ended up smack in the middle of the display. The fireworks were bursting overhead close enough to touch, sparks and flame raining down on us, we all carried home small paper parachutes that were part of the sparkling spiral fireworks. We had to watch and sometimes run, paying attention to where they were coming down, if they were too low, what the dangerous drunk people were doing.

It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever experienced; the awe, the laughter, the joy in living and being alive.

Eventually the danger outweighed the benefit, and we crept carefully out of a landmine of fireworks and sparklers and flares. Our original plan, to get alcohol, derailed when we walked by a Coldstone. Instead, we sat around small tables sharing ice cream, like we shared dinner, like we shared our laughter, and marveled at how, after only a week, it seemed like we had all known each other for years.

I made it through the evening. I selected some readings on the Hippocratic Oath; a student had asked if we could look them over, then I took a nap before dinner. My dean talked to me after dinner a bit - gave me quarters so I could do laundry (not implying I needed to, but an acknowledgment I was unable to get off campus to do it myself), and generally just checked in to see if I was okay. I assured him I had a lesson plan, I had napped, eaten, and things were fine - I was momentarily overwhelmed, but I’m good again. We’re gonna meet tomorrow afternoon, nonetheless. But it will be fine.

And I did make it through the evening. We did a close reading of the Hippocratic Oath, as well as the modern Tufts University version, and spent some time talking about the history of medicine. They were fascinated and appalled by “the cutting of stone”, surgeon barbers, the heavy use of mercury, etc. After the compare and contrasts of the reading, I taught them the four box paradigm of case analysis, and then had them analyze the case that was on their pre-class assessment. It was loud and they talked, a lot - but it was a good thing. I think running through case studies and analysis like this for every topic will be highly beneficial, especially if they become more and more complicated.

I’m not entirely sure what we’re going to do Weds, yet, but it’ll be fine. In the end, it always is.

I’m susceptible to post-teaching blues. There’s such a high when you teach, and feel so in your element and on your game, that the crash can be hard. I’m teaching for seven hours a day right now, in chunks that give me at least one crash, if not two. It’s hard. It’s hard to stay positive and think you’re doing a good job - and it’s even harder when you don’t have a classroom key, you don’t get all your supplies, you’re flying by the seat of your pants because someone screwed up and there weren’t textbooks, and you keep finding out at the last minute that the things you need can’t be had.

I have about two hours to pull a two hour lesson plan out of thin air - that includes making photo copies and eating dinner. My TA has the night off, I didn’t get the movie I needed, and I nearly broke into tears in front of the academic dean - told him it was just everything all at once, and I need a nap. A nap I can’t take because I have to do other things. And there won’t be sleep after class, either - the lack of movie throws my entire schedule and plan off, and I’d better come up with at least 5-10 hours of material before morning class.

On top of all that, I’m missing my support system. The people I normally talk to, who know how to deal with me, who know how to be kind without coddling, or causing tears.

I know this is normal for me, I know it will shake out in another day or two. But right now I just want to throw myself down on my bed and cry. Instead, I’m going to figure out what I can do for tonight’s class. Because, if nothing else, I am a magician, and I always pull it out of my hat - even if it’s the very very very possible last minute.

Scene: Wandering down a hallway on the UCSC campus, partly exploring randomly, partly heading to food. Idly chitchatting with several other instructors and RAs.

Kelly: Yeah, so anyhow, it ought to be interesting and I think it’ll be a lot of fu…
slows down, allowing other people to pass her by
Kelly: A lot of fu…
swivels and stares fully at office in front of her

RA: Kelly? Yo, Kel - everything alright?
others rejoin her

Kelly: I..
gestures at door
That’s Donna Haraway’s program. Her office must be around here. I’m going to need to take a fangirl moment, hang on…

I’m in Santa Cruz, California. I haven’t been into the city proper yet - we came straight to the UCSC campus from the airport - but just driving through Mountain View, Los Gatos, etc, en route to the site brought back floods of memories. It’s hard to believe I haven’t been here in something like 12 years. (I know I visited the area with Kellie and Eric before moving to Oregon, so that gives me a pretty narrow range of times of when I could have been here.)

I’m here to teach bioethics to a group of academically bright 12-16 year olds. I’ve spent my time since arriving Thursday setting up my dorm room - the first one I’ve ever lived in, or even been in for more than an evening (itself a thing new to the last few months) - and getting to know people. Oh, and eating in a cafeteria, another new experience. It’s like I get to round out all the things I missed by being a non-traditional student!

I’ve been so impressed by the people here, from the staff to instructors and RAs. Everyone is incredibly warm and friendly and welcoming. Plus, it’s California - my fast pace but casual relaxedness? Yeah, this is where I get it, so in so many ways I really am coming home. I’ve held myself so tensely, for the most part, while on the East Coast; it’s like exhaling after a long dive.

My dorm is a top floor corner room; I look out over the Santa Cruz mountains as well as a small volleyball area. That the mountains are right there is really an amazing bit of nature; deer wander the property like it’s a giant buffet, the fog rolls in every morning and night, the air is tinged with the tang of salt. It’s a beautiful place, full of all the small and subtle things my body thinks of as “home” in so innate a manner.

Which is not to say that… well, actually, yeah. I don’t miss Albany. I don’t, to be honest, even miss anyone in Albany - not yet. It hasn’t been long enough to yet notice I haven’t seen friends, and/or I’m still talking to people in the evening. I suspect come Monday, when I’m in class until 9pm and my ability to talk to people decreases dramatically, the missing of people will begin to happen.

And now, if I don’t want to miss breakfast - and I really don’t want to miss breakfast - I need to shower and make ready my day.

Things to perhaps use while teaching. Maybe.

M*E*S*S - Walter Reed scandal

I miss teaching. I don’t have a chance to do it formally at UAlbany right now, although I often end up the go-to person when it comes to anything French, continental, or bioethics-y. But the way its set up, there is a lot of competition to TA, and you have to be further along than I am to adjunct on your own.

It’s a funny thing to admit, in a way. Although I’ve known, since that first 390 Phillip dragged me kicking and screaming into teaching for, that I would become a teacher, it’s still strange to realize how much I miss it. How much I miss sparking people’s interest in a subject, seeing the ways other people understand the material, what they take from me, and what they give.

One of the many wisdoms Phillip left me with was the idea that some people learn best through reading, some through writing, some through teaching - and I very obviously learn best through teaching.

A little over a week ago, Johns Hopkins University Center for Talented Youth sent out a last minute job opening… to teach bioethics at their residential site at the University of California Santa Cruz. A position starting Thursday the 26th.

I took a deep breath, I threw my CV, my Stargate syllabus, and a whispered prayer, at the email address, and I waited. Before end of day, they had set up a phone interview.

I spent the next couple of days preparing, learning everything I could from people who’ve done this before. And interviewed for the job at 9am Monday morning. By 10am, they had offered me the position.

So in three days, I’m returning to a city I used to haunt as a teen, to teach a new crop of teens - some of whom probably weren’t even born the last time I was running around the Boardwalk. It’ll be a little over two weeks of intense coursework, smooshing an entire semester of work into that time. I’ve never done anything like this, and although I’m full of trepidation, I’m so very excited. Moreso, as it gets closer to time to leave. I’m going to miss my cats, my friends (and then some), spending the 4th of July with people I know, and small things I’m sure I’m not even thinking of and won’t until I’m gone.

But I’m also going to have a great time with 15 kids who want to learn about bioethics, in a beautiful place, on a great campus. And I’ll be putting another stone down on my own rambling, satisfying path.

(Granted, 10 minutes from now I’ll be back to freaking out about my still unformed syllabus and cleaning the house and trying to figure out every single thing I need to bring, but right now I’m going to sit here and enjoy my small moment of contentedness and serenity.)

Yup.

Leona Lewis’s Bleeding Love. The UK version, I believe. They (irritatingly) turned off embedding. Good song, though.

(I’m a wonderful combination of melancholy and utterly panicked right now, so you get music until I feel like saying more.)

This. Exactly. Sums it all up. No point in trying to craft words to say what’s already been said so perfectly.

Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick,
and think of you
caught up in circles confusion–
is nothing new
Flashback–warm nights–
almost left behind
suitcases of memories,
time after–

chorus:
if you’re lost…
…time after time
time after time
time after time
time after time

Dad’s on the East Coast right now, although down south and not near my sister or me. He went to visit relatives in Mississippi, and prior to that spent time driving around Memphis. It was a trip down memory lane for him - going to the house Mom grew up in, the place where he first met her, a hotel they stayed at once, the place they shared their first kiss. Just an hour or so, driving around and remembering.

My heart breaks for him. For all my grief and loss, I simply can’t even begin to imagine what his must feel like.

There’s something to be said about being who you know you can be, rather than who you are, and ideals and northern stars and guiding points rather than achievable goals, but I think it’s either still brewing, or I’ve found something I’m finally not worth placing online. Which, given what I’ve said here, says something in itself.

Everybody lies. An underlying premise on [the TV show] House, and sort of a core belief House builds his entire medical practice (and interaction with the human world) on.

So then the question is - what is it House is lying about?

Hrm.

Do you ever have those times, moments, when you realize how easy it really would be to slide away and out of life, to truly disappear? It’s been on my mind lately - and by all means, while I will cheerfully admit to being both bent towards goth and having strong emo streaks, this is not a “pay attention to me and prove me wrong” sort of thing - that my contact with people in actual life, meatspace as a former professor was want to call it, is so tenuous, so ephemeral, that I could, with little to no effort, turn into shadow and fade away. Certainly I would reappear in the academic year, but right now? The ties that bind are such thin strings…

There aren’t any pictures of Amish country, out of respect of their general wish to not be photographed. However, Hershey was a riot of colour and photographic opportunity! Click the picture to see the whole bunch, along with commentary.

I haven’t really kept up on television since the return, post-strike. I could say it is because it can be a pain to track everything down online, not having an active cable/television setup right now, or because I’ve been busy. But I think the reality is, I’ve only watched the shows that have storylines that don’t hit too close to home, things that I can watch and enjoy and even become emotionally invested in without feeling like it’s treading too close to still-raw pain. So perhaps it’s not a surprise that I’ve not watched Grey’s Anatomy or House, Battlestar Galactica, Doctor Who, none of it since they’ve returned to television. In fact, much like my attitude towards the end of Gaiman’s Sandman, I haven’t even watched the finale of Torchwood - if I don’t watch it, it doesn’t happen. Even if I know about it.

And I do know about all the storylines - I am keeping up via Television Without Pity and other sites. I’m reading recaps, tracking fan responses, and I know what’s going on. But there’s something about reading it through a computer screen rather than watching that allows a bit of a gap, a bit of distance - an ability to not feel, or at least not feel as strongly as I might otherwise. It’s a good thing, I think - except when I think that it’s a bad thing. Which is most of the time.

It’s hard not to note the amount of my interaction with the world that is mediated by the computer. The screen as a protective device; I can think about what I want to say, be eloquent, be removed. Interaction on my own terms, delayed live, rather than immediate. A slight disengagement. I can say things over that IM window that might never be said, admitted, in any sort of real time actual space place. And it worries me - shouldn’t I be forming more attachments out in that real time actual space world, rather than sinking further into the digital virtual?

I am most aware of how much my world has shrunk down on itself after experiencing it expand, and I can’t find the healthy balance between the two, between being so small that the world stops at the edge of bed and cats, and so large I can’t contain it all within my heart and hands.

I’m sitting on my bed right now, although a quick glance wouldn’t make that obvious. I’ve set aside that last paper I need to write, that take home exam I need to go over one more time before deciding that really is my final answer, and I’ve opened up the boxes of art supplies that have sat in my pantry, untouched for almost two years. A huge shift for me, for someone who incorporated art into classroom assignments (both those I gave as instructor, and turned in as student). But I’ve been feeling that clawing need to end up with hot glue on the tips of my fingers, paint ground into the very pores and lines of my skin, flecks of bronze leaf in my hair and ink or pastels smudged across my face.

So it was with amusement that I read this review, found originally at Jezebel, about the creative destructiveness of woman:

You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. If you don’t want to starve, a certain ruthlessness becomes necessary. You may not want to own the bloodiness involved in killing, plucking and drawing your own chicken, or butchering your own pig, but you’d probably be prepared to dice onions with a sharp knife and mince parsley. Similarly, if you had a garden or allotment, you’d dutifully hack and slash at weeds and brambles. This sanctioned destructiveness can give the mildest-seeming person great inner satisfaction. No need to come out publicly about one’s sadistic impulses if there is vegetable chopping or shrub pruning to be done. Magically, the angry feelings, channelled through practical technique, loving and attentive, may produce beauty.

That happy result depends, of course, on whether you’ve chosen your work or feel obliged to do it. Perhaps bad cooks and gardeners have too much anger rather than too little. The cook who reduces the vegetables to sludge may be venting her exasperation at having to produce daily meals whether she feels like it or not. The gardener who concretes over the wilderness may be fed up with doing most of the nurturing in the family. Burning the dinner may mean wanting to change the world. Feminists since Mary Wollstonecraft have known this.

The review goes on to say that the book author, Juliet Miller, ties in the idea of sanctioned forms of female creativity, such as motherhood, and the unsanctioned - anything with anger or violence. But the problem is, art is often angry, often violent, often the exploration of a rupture; if women don’t think of anger as feminine, but instead masculine and off limits, they can stifle themselves into silence.

It’s an interesting idea, that she extends into writing, research, and just about everything we do - art is creation, and creation can be found anywhere, from the lab to academic papers. And we stifle ourselves whenever we begin to think that we can’t get angry, we have to play nice, we have to fulfill certain roles and duties. Miller ties to whether or not we look to our ideal woman as being the sexless virgin mother Mary, or the passionately violent creator/destructor Kali. I’m not sure I so precisely buy that stringent a dichotomy, but I do find the idea (as I sit here in a sea of supplies) that we need art, that it is not a hobby, not a luxury, but a necessity.