Black, Yellow, and Deadly

Summer is amazing.  It's full of energy and life in a way that no other season can match.  But there's danger, too.  Oddly, enough, though, the danger of summer was captured for me one October afternoon.  It's one of perhaps three times that I've had what I call a near death experience and it is the one I remember most acutely.

As I said, it was October and I was helping mom clean up the kitchen.  It had been warm and there were still mosquitoes out...I had at least one bite on my ankle.  This would become more interesting as the day wore on.  I threw something away and was pushing the garbage down into the bin when it happened.  Just a tiny prick on my thumb between the first and second knuckle.  I gasped a bit and looked down, only to see him sitting there.  He was black and yellow and somewhere looked angry, sullen, groggy.  It was, after all, October.   I said something to my mom and she was surprised - she had apparently killed him and thrown him away earlier.  It would seem he was more resilient than that.  It was a lesson to be learned.

There was not much fear yet.  I had been stung a long, long time ago and had had a terrible reaction, but it was so long ago that there was some level of buffer.  I had become complacent in those long years.

Within a few moments after the sting, the mosquito bite on my ankle began to spread into a full hive that ran nearly to my knee.  It itched.  I felt other hives begin to form and I mentioned them to mom. She sent me up to take a bath in baking soda to relieve the itch.  I may have taken some Benedryl even then, but I don't remember.  I don't really remember any fear at this point, except perhaps the vague stirrings somewhere deep inside.  Somewhere I couldn't place or even identify.  Not yet.

That changed relatively quickly because as I sat in the bath, I could feel my throat begin to close.  I remember licking my lips as the fear became steadily more insistent and my tongue dragged over lips that were beginning to swell.  Eyes, ears, tongue.  I scrambled out of the tub and called down to my mom in a voice edged with the beginnings of panic.  She told me to take my contacts out and get dressed.  Her thought process was far more rapid than mine; she could see my eyes, the swelling and perhaps the fear, too.  Moms know things.  They sense things.  At least mine did.

Later, I learned that there was a different hospital we could have gone to, one that would have been faster and easier.  Mom took me to the one she knew, though, and for that I can't blame her.  She never liked expressway driving so she took me to Thompson.

I don't really remember the car ride...except I remember coughing.  It was getting harder to breathe and I couldn't focus on anything.  My hands were cold, my arms were laced with blotchy hives...the fear clawing at me in ragged breaths drawn between lips turning blue.  I suspect my mother drove faster than she had ever driven up to then or since.

We arrived at the emergency department and mom half dragged, half carried me inside.  She said two words as they came to us, "wasp sting" and they became a blur.  I was in an exam area with a needle in my arm before my mother saw a stitch of paperwork.  I don't remember much - needles, 2800 mg of Benedryl, a blood pressure of 60 / 40, a doctor telling me that when I came in,I was about 10 minutes from a coma.  From there, death.

These days, I carry two Epi-pens with me.  Adrenaline which will not get me out of harm's way, it will only stave it off until I get to a hospital.  I've been stung by a bee since that day, but it only put me on crutches for a week with an angry infection and stretch marks across my ankle.  That hasn't reduced the vigilance; it just focuses it more tightly on what I call the heavy hitters - wasps and yellow jackets.  You see, that's the thing about allergies to stinging insects...I really have no way of knowing if I am more allergic now or if I've grown out of it as I've gotten older.  The only way to know for sure is to get stung again.  So, I am careful.  I remember the fear.  I try hard to not become complacent again.   I have people who help me with that and while I may act exasperated when I am reminded, I get it.

I'm not sure I have any profound words to change the experience into something larger than what it was.  I know I almost died that day and I know my mother paved the way for me to live and while some details are fuzzy, I will never forget the fear and the slow withdrawal of myself from anything around me.  I don't remember parts of it because parts of me were already letting go.  I can still see my blue-tipped fingers in my mind's eye, still see the hives blotting my wrists in awkward patterns.  I remember enough to know I was lucky and in good hands.

We all have these kinds of memories etched into our minds...they remind us how fragile life is and how amazing it is that we draw breath each day and can run through the flowers and walk along the lake on a beautiful summer day.  Some of us just have to remember to bring our Epi-pens along to guard against death in tiny packages of sullen black and yellow...

What's In a Name...

Today I will talk about names.  Names are powerful things.  In a book I am currently reading, the author draws on old magic wherein the knowing the name of a thing gives one a certain power over it.  Sometimes, this is a dangerous use of dark magic and sometimes it is something more subtle and beautiful.  But always, it is power.  From Rothfuss to Rowling to Rumplestiltskin, there are countless examples from fiction, fantasy, and folklore that tell of the power of names.

For me, it works on other levels as well.  We use our given names everywhere (in Pulp Fiction, isn’t it Bruce Willis’ character who says we are in America, and names don’t mean….well, you get the idea).  I don’t think that’s entirely true, but there is a certain amount of familiarity with the names we carry on our birth certificates.  Perhaps that is why it feels like there is power in the bestowing of a name that is accepted by the one who is named.  The giving of a nickname, a pet name, a role name, or the choosing of a name is not something often entered into lightly.  I’ve thought about this a lot lately – partially due to the need to name the kitten that is currently fiercely battling a stuffed mouse under my chair.  Perhaps because of the Baptism I recently attended or the student I have who was brave enough and strong enough to give himself a male name to better reflect who he felt like inside.  Perhaps I’ve always loved names as a writer and a gamer and someone who loves words in general (who amongst you writers and games doesn’t know what I mean when I say a name must have The Ring?)  My husband is more frequently known by the character name from the game in which we met than he is by his given name.  My best friend is called Raven for a million reasons, all of which are fitting and funny and wise and meaningful beyond what I can explain here.  I tend to give nicknames to my dear friends because it ties them closer to me in some way.  Not to sound proprietary, but it makes them mine.  I hate the way that sounds, but I think my readers will know what I mean.  It is a verbal bond – or a verbal marker of a bond that is far more ethereal, in general.   As someone who has long believed that I’m cursed with finding wonderful people only to then lose them, this is a significant emotional investment.  Names of all kinds have power in my world…and if I give you one, it means something.  If you give me one, it means something as well.

That leads me to verbalizing my curiosity about names I’ve gathered over time.  There are a number of reasons for this and a number of names that immediately spring to mind.  JDB has a slew of nicknames for me, Raven has one, my sister has one.  My brother gave me one long ago that he doesn’t use much anymore, really, but it’s still mine.  My father and mother each have names for me, as do my nephews.  And then there are my students.    Many of them call me Dr. T., which is something I like.  Formal, but not.  Kind of like me.  Amongst the larger group of students is a smaller group who, for a variety of reasons, I refer to as my Minions.  They seem completely at ease with this moniker and they consist of students who take every class with me that they can.  They are students who wear the title with something akin to honor and they seem believe they have to earn it and keep earning it.  They work hard; they go above and beyond as students.  And they have given me a name to which I also feel I must continue to earn.  There was a time when the chief among them called me Teacher Lady.  Later, it just became Teacher.  Still later, it was shortened again to Teach.  And then it spread until all the Minions now use it.  I see it in letters, emails, notes on my door, Facebook messages, in the halls and the random places where we meet.  On some level it may seem generic – it is a verb that describes what I do.  I suspect it means a lot more than that and that it carries a lot of weight behind it.  I think.  I’m sometimes not very good at these things. This may sound completely off the wall, but it reminds me of the days when I was called Fang-sama and Sōke (pronounced so-kay).  Which, of course, begs some explanation.

In the game where I met my husband and the people with whom I’ve held the longest friendships I’ve ever had, I played a character that belonged to one of three races.  One race was vaguely Middle Eastern, one was loosely Western European, and the third was based on a blending of various Asian cultures.  The dress, philosophy, culture, and belief system was an amalgamation of mostly Japanese and Chinese cultures of the past.  I chose the third one to play (I was and still am a fan of martial arts movies and even trained Washin-ryu for a little while.  I claim no real knowledge of anything beyond that, I just liked what little I knew).  Since I was the head of the monarchy, which at its largest was 160+ members, it had those same cultural leanings.  We were a role-playing group and so I was my character for many of its members – and I was never anything else.  When they or I left the game, we no longer really existed for one another.  But while we were there, I was Soke – which roughly translates to something like headmaster, head of the family, or even grandmaster.  To some I was Sensei – teacher.  Some went so far as to call me “My Queen” (one still does to this day) or to add –sama to my character’s name.  This last often caused me some measure of embarrassment – for it is an honorific given to one whom is greatly loved, respected, or admired.

Now, this was, of course, in a role-playing game so some amount of hyperbole is to be expected and I certainly don’t personally lay claim to any of those titles or honorifics, though at the time I loved the feel of them in the context of the game.  I was the head of a monarchy and so it was a good feeling to have so many willing to play that role with me and create a vast network of like-minded folks in a game where interactive story telling far surpassed the graphics and story of the game itself. 

Sōke and Teach are very different things, but I treasure them for much the same reasons.  They were given to me by people who chose to give me a name that reflected who I was in their life.  It may seem odd to say, but I've always seen a certain level of parallel to gaming and educating.  I play the role of educator, they play the role of learners.  When the game – the class – is over, they move on and so do I.   We all find new games and new experiences and often, our paths diverge, never more to reunite.  I was their professor, but am no more because they have moved on.  They were my students, but are no more, because our time together has ended.  They may never use the knowledge again in a direct way, but I like to think it has impacted them on some level – just as we may never return to the games of our past, but they forever impact the games we play in the future, even if it is a subtle and indirect and obscure a connection.  But some – some stay, the game changes and the characters change, but they remain.  They are the Minions who let “Hey Teach” roll off their tongues with casual smoothness and grins.  They are the ones who still call me Fang-sama and My Queen – despite that we stopped playing the game over ten years ago.

I started talking about names and ended up talking about teaching and students and, to a larger extent, the impact we have on the people around us.  And games.  There may be names I don’t have anymore, but they are in the Record Book of who I am and how I came to be the person writing this today.  So, I will treasure ‘Teach’ for as long as it is part of my current story…and we will see who keeps using it, who finds a new name, and who fades away leaving good memories and a story behind them as they travel. 

Like a phoenix, rising...

It took me a long time to determine what to write about.  After all, it has been a long time since I posted in this blog and it didn't feel right to just dive right in without acknowledging that.  It isn't as if I've such a large following of readers that it really matters, but it matters to me.  Therefore, it matters.

I've had numerous conversations and deep thoughts of late that would make excellent blog posts, and I suspect that many of them will become just that as I move into my attempt to do this more regularly.  

I've talked late into the night about fear when it comes to allowing people into my inner circle.  This fear is borne out of the realization that letting them in gives them the power to impact my state of being.  I’m emotionally sensitive and I feel things very deeply.  This can be a dangerous combination.

I've talked about the nature of religion and belief and how I've come to peace with belief systems and organizations built on belief systems and the disparity that oft seems to lie between.  My own is at once deceptively simple and infuriatingly complex.  But I’m at peace with it, and on the edge of a path that might lead me into a journey of discovery.

I've thought a lot about my role as a teacher and how closely intertwined that is to who I am.  I cannot speak for other careers, but I know that for me, this calling is one that cannot be wholly separated from that emotional being I mentioned above.  Teaching exhilarates and exhausts me, excites and exasperates me.  Grading is a terrible time for me – each student who has stumbled, each who has failed is a failure of my own, whether that’s accurate or not.  I’m not sure which ones hurt more – those with wasted potential and squandered time, or those who are just misplaced and have not found what will motivate them.  Some of them so desperately need me and I live in constant worry that I will somehow let them down.  And when I do, it can be devastating.

I've thought a lot about the nature of leisure activities and what constitutes entertainment.  I've noticed a trend towards the bleak in much of what is popular these days and I used to struggle immensely with what makes me so different that I have no wish to watch shows where the biggest question of the week is who and how many will die and whether or not it was a fitting end for the serial killer and the meth addict.  For a long time, I wondered what was wrong with me, quite frankly, that I couldn't take pleasure in these sorts of stories.  And I wondered who was the more odd, me or the vast numbers of the population whose proclivity for this sort of entertainment was so disparate from mine.  And then I figured it out.

I've thought about these things and talked of many more.  I have grappled with friendships just born and those which seem always on the edge of failure.  I've talked about dark psychology and bright futures.  I've thought about poetry and birds, babies and the cold winter, plans and regrets.  I've talked about a world that is changing for the better in the face of tragedies which belie how far we have to go.  Tragedies and tears, love and light.  So many things rolling around inside my head and yet not one of them seemed fitting for the re-inauguration of a blog that means a good deal to me if not to anyone else in particular.  Instead, it seems more fitting to talk of why I am bringing it back to life.

I love to write is one reason; this goes without saying, I’m sure.  The other main reason is that I spend ten months of the year actively feeling disingenuous.  I teach my students to read and to write and yet I do not do enough of either to make it anything more than “Do as I say and not as I do.”  It feels – and has felt – wrong.  I have half read books collecting dust, poems that only get written because I feel the pressure of an annual reading wherein I am in the spotlight and need words with which to fill the room.  This cannot stand.  So, when asked to build goals as part of my post-tenure review, I wrote this as my last goal:

Be a better practitioner of my own craft.

And so, here we are.  Come with me, if you will – and we shall see where my mind goes and whether or not it is of interest to you.  That said, I will leave you with the words of our beloved Maya Angelou, who so recently slipped her light away from the earth...

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

Will you listen to my story?

Desert Places..

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces Between stars--on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places.

-R. Frost

I’ve often heard tell that this time of year can be the hardest to face even when you have many blessings to count.  It just feels like this time around it’s even more painful than I recall it being in other years.  It feels like tragedy is touching my life in ways that dig deeper than the sad brushings of pain I can sense but cannot feel as keenly as those engulfed and reeling in its wake.  It seems it began as summer passed into autumn, the days grew shorter, the wind grew chill..

I have said many times that life moves in ley lines that sometimes arrange themselves in brilliant mosaics that leave us speechless and thankful.  Sometimes, though, the ley lines carry naught but tears and the hitching of breath that never seems to be enough to truly feel alive.   As I wake to muted dark mornings and deep blue nights, gazing up at sullen grey skies and endless expanses of stars, so many around me are facing unthinkable pain.  This is for them.

For Linda, who lost a nephew in one of the most inconsolable ways imaginable…

For Karen, who lost an aunt who was also very much a friend…

For Holly, who lost a brother in arms who paid the ultimate price…

For the Biddles and others, who lost a friend whose smile brightened the world…

For FLCC and beyond, who reeled when his story came to an end…

For those who have lost elders and youth, friends and family four-legged and two…

For Ben, whose family is straining against a dark cloud of fear and heartache…

For Larry, who walked a path of uncertainty to bring his mother comfort…

For Allison, who supports a son and a husband who need all that she has to give…

For you, for your own battles and tears....

And for me…

For myself, I will hug my loved ones, appreciate my many blessings, and smile as the snowflakes fall and the bells jingle.  But I will also keenly feel the acute sense of loss and heartache that faces so many that I love.  It is the price one pays for wearing her heart on her sleeve and entwining others' lives into her own.  I would not change it, but I will seek solace in what counts as prayer in my worldview...

May each of you – each of us – find solace in warm memories, good friends, and the promise of brighter yesterdays and tomorrows both.  May we hold on to our loved ones – the ones who are here, the ones who are gone, and the ones who may leave us at any moment.  May we love them – all of them, may we never shy away.  May we never be afraid to love, to reach out, to hold on.

Hand in hand, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, we will all learn to smile again.  Our strength lies in one another - the rhythm of beating hearts, the light of love.

Let no one be lost, let no one be alone.

This is Teaching...

As I sit here writing this, my students are reflecting on the paper that they wrote for our class today.  As they work, they will occasionally look up and make some sort of comment about the project, their state of mind, or the contents of what they are writing.  Sometimes, their comments have nothing to do with what they are writing about.  But they are working.  It is an eclectic group of students -- nursing, business, biology, music.  Only five students and the campus where I teach them is a half hour drive from the main campus.  The course sits at the end of a long day in which I've likely already taught three classes and attended at least one meeting.  Normally, this would be exhausting and three-hours dragging by in the painful way that only night classes can.  But not this time.  Not this time. I am teaching.

To really understand the scope of what I'm talking about, you have to understand that this class is an experiment - an introductory writing class that is half online and truncated to fit into a half a semester.  On some level, it feels like it is set up to fail - sped up, half-removed, tiny.  But, against all foreseeable odds, it is not failing.  It's working.  The students are engaged, active, thoughtful, funny, participatory, and alive.  I do not list these qualities as being somehow different from my other classes, really, I am looking at them solely on their own merit.  I can sum up by saying this: I leave after a fourteen hour day energized.  They are helping me shape this course into something that is actually useful for them and a place where, despite all the elements that made me expect failure, they can succeed.  This is teaching.

You see, none of them want to be here, really.  One of them admits to putting the course off for two years because he "doesn't like to write."  One student was struggling to make sense of what to write and how to write it and another told him, "we will help you."  They are supportive of each other in the face of their own intimidation, fear, insecurity, and doubt.  They stress.  They ask questions born from these feelings.  But, they ask questions.  They will interrupt me to ask a question that is maybe not entirely on task but is about writing and all the nuances of it.  They fret about doing well.  They raise eyebrows at the amount of work and the time period in which they have to complete it -- but then they nod and dig in.  They panic that they can't do it all, except then they do.  This is teaching.

It is not perfect; sometimes, in the online portion of the class, there are more crickets than I would like to hear.  But, then again, that is also partially my fault.  We are all on a leaning curve here, and sometimes we slip down a little bit as we try to find our way.  They are easily distracted...but also easily reigned back in.  This is teaching.

This is teaching.  And I am grateful.

Just Save One...

Life has ley-lines -- defined in different ways depending on your spiritual inclination -- but I'm simply referring to the way life seems to comment on itself and rearrange events so as to have them line up in interesting and often fortuitous ways.  I will explain.

Day One.  Morning.  I sat in the new auditorium at work listening to the opening remarks made by the president of the college.  She talked of the things she always talks about -- enrollment and retention, initiatives and strategic plans, budgets and construction.  In her graceful and eloquent way, she spoke of her dreams for the college and, as she often does, she made it deeply personal.  She talked of students as if she knew each one and as if her heart broke a little every time we lost one.  And I'm sure, in a way, it does.  As part of this talk, she asked us to imagine how different the college could be if we each saved one.  Just one.

Day Two, Morning.  I had breakfast with a former student.  We always talk of getting together, but we don't manage it nearly enough for either one of us to be happy.  During the course of our conversation, it came to light that she wanted to return to school, but knew she owed money to the college and was trapped in a reluctant, embarrassed cycle of procrastination and fear.  I knew she was capable of so much more than she was currently in a position to do, so I suggested -- then encouraged, then downright demanded -- that she return to the campus with me and speak to the powers that be about what she owed and how she might go about fixing things that so she could return, someday, to school.

Day Two, Noon.   I was speaking to a friend and colleague in the lunch line about the morning's events without really realizing that the president of the college was behind me, listening.  After a few minutes, I realized this to be the case and I expanded my explanation to include her as well -- we talked of the ache of watching dreams slip away for something as frustrating as money.  We talked of saving a student.  Our conversation ended with her suggesting I speak to the controller of the college about the situation.

Day Two, Afternoon.  After exchanging a couple of emails in which I was told that something could likely be worked out, I went to the controller and told him the story, and within a few moments, the hold was lifted on her account and she was free to register.  The only caveats were that she make arrangements with the collection agency, she get a job on campus, and she do well.  I had countless assurances from her that she would.  Just like that, an obstacle became a concurrent responsibility.

Day Three, Afternoon.  The student became just that - a student at the college.  She took care of the collection agency, financial aid, and reactivating her account.

Day Three, Evening -- As the student and I discussed possible student aide jobs, I had a flash of thought and sent a message to the director of the writing center on campus inquiring as to whether or not they were looking for peer tutors.  They were.  Now, the student will be meeting the director at a staff meeting on Friday with a writing sample and a letter of recommendation.  It is not, of course, a sure thing -- but the match seems a good one thus far.

In a space of sixty hours, one speech from a college president who was cutting the ribbon on a new academic year led to an unemployed young woman actively accepting personal responsibility and becoming a college student with an achievable and realistic dream.

She calls it a miracle.  The friend in the lunch line calls it knowing people in high places.  I'm sure the president would call it the least we could do.  I call it serendipity.  I'm not sure it matters what we call it beyond the acknowledgement that these three days unfolded in such a way as to completely turn someone's life around.  She has dreams and her feet are now on a road to achieve them.  It won't be easy for her -- no one is giving her handouts.  All we are doing is giving her the chance to show us what she has.  And me?  I'm not sure I did any real magic -- but I'm not sure that matters either.  I put my neck out there because I believe in her and because the message of enabling success in others was still ringing in my ears.  And I work in a place that is willing to put action to word.  I'm not sure that echos positively on me, or the college, or both.  But no matter where the magic and the power began -- it lies now with her.  And I, for one, cannot wait to see what she can do with these opportunities for I know that she has it in her to do what the president challenged all of us to do.  

Just save one.

Testing

I'm trying out the Blogger app on my iPad. I can't believe it doesn't rotate, Then again, I can't believe they don't have an iPad version. Oh well.

Anyway. I'm hoping to resurrect my blog. This is an odd way to do so. I love my iPad, though, so maybe that will be what it takes to get me t owrite again. The keyboard makes it even easier to do so.

I'm not sure I have any readers left -- not that I had that many in the first place. I think I'll just try to do this for me and just see what happens. Time to post and see if it works.

-T