Today is my birthday, but this month also marks an important milestone for me. I’ve been teaching for twenty years.

I wasn’t always sure that this was what I was going to be, despite the amazing teachers I had, how much I enjoyed tutoring and directing, and the empowerment and escape path I found in education.

I had a year between undergrad and grad school, and when I started grad school in the summer of 1998, I was sure of what I wanted.

Especially after I got to guest teach for the first time.

If the feeling I had had happened in a church, I’d be a nun now.

I’d like to claim it was inevitable, and I could make that case–I’ve seen my permanent record. (I asked my mom for a note to see it when I was in high school–I wondered if the rumors about it were true.)

One of the first notes, from my kindergarten teacher:

“Karma displays leadership abilities on the playground.”

And so here I am, displaying leadership abilities on the playground of higher education.

In these twenty years, I’ve taken several pedagogy courses, including a film pedagogy course, I’ve made a video for my students on better editing, I’ve mentored (officially and unofficially) many students, worked with our at-risk students, written two pedagogy books, served with our campus book program, done library outreach, created courses, worked with student interns, been an interim director of a program, served on committees, overseen comp exams, worked with local theatres, brought speakers to campus, significantly contributed to scholarship in my fields, edited Prized Writing, served on two dissertation committees, gotten my students scholarships and into graduate schools, facilitated the stand-up comedy club, etc.

I have won the 2015 AF Excellence in Teaching Award.

And then there are the courses.

I think this is the complete list (two of these years at Florida State, getting a terminal masters by writing a book–yes, a book, for a masters; six of these years at UCD, getting a PhD, during which for one year I just TAd; and then full-time at UCD for the rest; adjuncting for Los Rios; I’m only counting courses for which I was the sole instructor):

Freshman Comp: 25

Writing About The Simpsons: Satire and Postmodernism. This turned into a book and a freshman seminar at UCD that I’ve taught over a dozen times. 2

Great Books of the World: 2

Young People’s Lit: 1

Storytelling: 1

Multicultural Children’s Lit: 2

Science and Speculative Fiction by Women: 1

Introduction to Drama: 1

The Short Story: 1

Writing Research Papers: 2

Witches: Myth and Literature: 1

Performing Arts Today: 1

Contemporary British Literature: 1

Fantasy Literature (in Oxford): 1

Group Study (travel writing): 1

Style in the Essay: 7

Graphic Novels: 4

Writing in Education: 3

Writing in Film: 2

Writing in International Relations: 7

Writing in Health Science: 23

Freshman Seminars (British Humour, Science and Literature, Doctor Who, Margaret Atwood, The Simpsons, Stand-Up Comedy): 41

Advanced Composition and Rhetoric: 30

Grad Course: Writing in Performance Studies: 4

Writing in Business: 2

Shakespeare: 2

Writing in Fine Arts: 2

Tutoring in Writing: 2

Independent Studies: 8

Grad Course: Writing in Forensic Science: 1

Introduction to Fiction: 3

Introduction to Lit: 8

Developmental Writing (Workload): 63

If my math is correct and if I’m not forgetting a course or two, I have taught 255 courses so far.

(I refuse to do the math on how many papers I’ve graded.)

Not bad for someone who had a less than 1% chance of getting a BA.

Not bad for a chronic pain patient.

 

Today, I’m stressed because I have to finish grading two classes; two more start Monday.

But I’m excited about those courses.

And, as I remind my students, I have an amazing job. I get paid to think. I tell students what I think, they write down what they think, and then I tell them what I thought of that.

🙂

There’s no way I could have done everything I have if I didn’t love this.

And part of what I love is seeing them grow, into better writers, better thinkers, and sometimes better people.

The other thing I love is having that rare relationship with a student that grows into a real friendship.

(You know who you are.)

So thank you to all my students, except for the baker’s dozen that have really pissed me off (it’s amazing that it’s only about a dozen–fewer than one a year–who has really been a problem).

Thank you for your patience, your encouragement, your laughter, your hard work, your willingness to let me experiment, your friendship.

Me, in my senior year of high school (92-93):

In the Fall, I unexpectedly started growing this:

The first time I felt him kick, I was getting an award, but I couldn’t tell anyone there about his achievement, since he was still a secret:

When I did finally tell people, in my third trimester, one of my friend’s moms threw me a shower:

He was born after graduation, 6 days before I turned 18.

The nurses told me it was weird that he furrowed his brows. “He’s got a lot to think about,” I said. “The other babies don’t do that.” “Mine does.”

I didn’t have much of anything for him. Or anyplace to go, until my (grand)daddy came for us. The other mother who shared my hospital room gave us her second car seat, so we could leave the hospital legally.

This is him, with his great-great grandmother, Bessie:

This is him, unhappy because we let the swing stop:

Despite our difficulties, we managed to be okay, almost always on our own. He didn’t know we were poor or unusual. When people would comment on how young I looked, he would patiently explain, “she was in high school when she had me!”

We have been together for 25 years. We built a good life in California, filled with friends and laughter and Simpsons and books and travel and Weird Al Yankovic and kittens. 

I love you more than anything. Here’s to the rest of our time together.

This morning, I was alerted that someone had sent me a message on Plenty of Fish, but the message is not in my inbox.

There are two reasons this might be–the person sent the message and then deleted his profile (or the site deleted it).

Or–and this is more likely–the person sent the message and then blocked me so I couldn’t respond (and the person is too stupid to get that blocking me means I can’t see the message).

The person’s handle: Gods1fan.

Gee, I wonder what he might want to say to me, while also making sure I can’t respond. . .

Two Waltonens agree: this book is a fast, enjoyable read.

Gonzales lets you experience the attack of the Regional Office through two points of view–the attackers and the ones being attacked. In doing so, he challenges our traditional action, superhero, and scifi conventions.

Is the agency that recruits assassins good? Or are those who resist good? What does everyone know and when? If you don’t know what your agency really does, are you culpable? Is extra-judicial justice by those with certain powers or talent ever justified? What if the other recruits don’t you? If your whole life is ruled by a secret agency, what happens when you date (within that agency)? And then what happens when the relationship sours?

The narrating female voices are distinct, dangerous, and fun.

The Thanksgiving Play at CapStage closes on July 22nd.

See it before then, please.

I was able to see it last night. I loved this play, but what struck me most was the audience’s laughter. I have never heard more hearty, desperately-trying-to-catch-a-breath belly laughs in a theatre before.

(Was the spelling of “theatre” correct there? It’s a big debate, but I’ll have to explain it later.)

The humor comes from many angles, intersecting in a strongly directed piece, with great comic timing, about race, gender, theatre, voice, agency, shopping habits, eating habits, stress, simplicity, collaborative theatre (insert shudder of recognition from my acting days), education, selfies, and performativity.

The Thanksgiving Play is about a school drama teacher trying to construct a culturally relevant play about Thanksgiving in a way that will both appeal to our post-post racial, #metoo time and honor Native Americans.

Except they don’t have any Native Americans.

This is a beautiful, biting, clever satire. You’re watching a cast of white actors (playing a cast of white actors) talk about the problem of the invisibility of Native Americans, as they try to construct a play about Thanksgiving with no Native Americans. If this weren’t meta and weren’t written by a Native American playwright, we would be in trouble.

But it is and it is, so laugh away.

If I had more time this month, I’d see it again.

 

Author: Larissa FastHorse

Director: Michael Stevenson

The awesome cast: Gabby Battista, Cassidy Brown, Jouni Kirjola (we’re probably related, in the way that all Finnish Americans are), Jennifer Le Blanc.

There are generally four kinds of non-progressives who see my profile, which clearly states that the man I want “will share my basic values, so he will be liberal/progressive (conservatives, libertarians, and anarchists need not apply).”

First, there are the men who can read and leave me alone. They may be thankful I warned them; they may hate me for being a “libtard.” I have no idea, and for that, I’m grateful.

Second, there are the men who message me to tell me I’m being close-minded. They think I’m attractive, so they think I should put politics aside to let them enjoy me.

They say things like this:

The problem with liberals is they believe that we conservatives are all alike.

I point out this thing called irony.

Opposites attract.

I say, No one who would vote against equality, affordable education, healthcare, or reproductive rights will be able to share my bed.

I don’t care about what gay people do or what you do with your body.

I then have to explain that I’m looking for someone who does care about what gay people are allowed to do and who does care what I can do with my body, instead of voting against us.

This is where guy type 2 usually gives up.

Then, there is the third type, who refuses to go down without an insult.

Last week, I thought a guy was type 2, but he just kept making those ridiculous claims: liberals think all conservatives are alike, liberals want to ban guns, liberals don’t think people should have to work for anything.

Then why did he want to date me, I asked.

Oh I don’t think we could have a relationship. But you’re cute and I thought we could have some fun.

I reminded him that I was looking for long-term.

Then he said I was just looking for a weak man to boss around, that I was afraid of a real man.

(He had already said he pictured all liberal men as having manbuns and being unable to change a flat tire.)

I told him real men weren’t badgering, whiny, mansplainers and blocked him.

And then there’s the fourth type, who thinks that he’s the exception to my rule (he thinks he’s a “centrist”).

Recent example:

Him: Hi there, so I did read your profile as requested. 
I’m fairly sure at least politically We are gonna be like minded. [story about some Fox news watching woman who came on to him. I shared a story in kind.]

I’ve always been pretty open minded politically, socially very liberal and more middle of the road fiscally but I just cannot figure out why anyone would support this guy. Politics aside he’s just a really horrible person. He’s a textbook bully. Ugh 
Resist resist resist. Lol

Me: I used to date socially liberal/fiscal conservative guys, but I can’t do it anymore if they vote Republican. If a guy willing to throw voting rights, gays, reproductive rights, the environment, science, education, etc. under the bus for his wallet, then I can’t be with him.

He never answered me, so I guess he usually votes Republican.

What is it that makes these Republican voters think they get to count as liberals/progressives? Because when they vote to fuck the rest of us over, they’re only being selfish, instead of overtly racist/sexist/homophobic/nationalist?

A lot of men tell me they’re frustrated because

• women don’t write back
• women won’t agree to a date after a nice conversation
• women flake
• women stand them up
• women aren’t honest in their profiles
• women have too many conditions for dating
• women don’t start conversations enough
• women are hypocrites who don’t practice what they preach

Guys, women are people. So are you. Almost everyone does this.

I sometimes try to start a conversation with people who have “liked” me, only to be met with silence.

(One guy just sent a message back to a first message I sent 11 months ago!)

I have proposed a drink after a day or so of messaging, only to be met with silence. (Two months ago, a guy kept sending me long messages (average word count: 750). There were days and days of this. He scheduled a date, asked for a reschedule, and then ghosted me.)

Last week, I got stood up for a date. (Not for the first time.)

Last year, a guy arrived to a date, told me he had to move his car, and then never came back (he wrote later, saying he had a migraine, but never asked for a do-over).

Some men I meet don’t look like their profile pictures.

Many men have been shorter than they claimed to be.

There’s a guy on POF who has sent me the same cut and paste opening twice. Within three days. And I had answered him the first time. I asked him why he didn’t have a profile picture when he had set the following conditions for someone to message him:

“To send a message to [redacted] you MUST meet the following criteria:
Female
Lives in United States
You must have a picture to contact this user.”

Many men search for and say they want “thin”; I don’t contact them to tell them what a beautiful person I am inside.

Many men search for and say they don’t want a woman who already has a child; I don’t contact them to say, “but mine is an adult.”

Less than an hour ago, a guy blocked me after I told him we were incompatible. What were we incompatible about? He said he didn’t believe in sex before marriage.

To all the guys who are struggling out there, we are struggling too.

I wanted to like this more than I did. It is reminiscent of early LeGuin–practical sci-fi, with an often cool detachment. But I couldn’t get into it deeply, emotionally.

I really liked the way the author created a full world and real characters, especially given the premise of the novel, one in which a small group of survivors of planet annihilation have to rebuild their lives and their gene pool on an alien world, inhabited by other hominids.

The small group of survivors are a lot like Vulcans in temperament, so I kept easily imagining this story as one that might happen after Vulcan’s destruction.

The main Vulcan finds his Uhura, which is rewarding, though I thought the two leads were coy about their attraction for each other for way too long.

Yesterday, I got a message from a Canadian living in San Francisco on Plenty of Fish. He quoted a sentence from my profile and said that we wanted the same things.

When I went to his profile, I saw my sentence.

He confirmed that he stole it.

A message or so later, he asked me what I thought about something he read on the internet that day, which claims that black people are stupid and that that’s why Jewish people want gentiles to mate with them–so that Jews can make gentiles stupid.

Me: I think that’s racist bullshit.

Him: Yes, it’s racist. But why is it bullshit?

He doesn’t mind, in other words, that it’s racist. He knows it is and that he is, but thinks that’s okay.

He said I must not be aware of the Jewish plan to create a dumb slave race through generations of interbreeding.

I blocked him.

And thanked the universe that no one was conspiring to make me date guys like that–talk about IQs going down.

My profile literally says: The guy I want: smart, funny, secure in himself, sexy, nonsmoker, pro-science, pro-equality, supports reproductive rights, very close geographically. He will share my basic values, so he will be liberal/progressive (conservatives, libertarians, and anarchists need not apply).

How dumb do you have to be to think neo-Nazi is what I’m looking for?

I had to log off for most of the day and vigorously shower.

I also now have to live knowing that a sentence I wrote is on a white supremacist’s dating profile.

This is the one time when not being cited works in my favor.