The Weird Kid
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Fuck
For two weeks I have responded to all questions regarding my 400 level writing class at the university with, "I have faith. I am keeping an open mind." Today, as the first swell of the perfect storm, my mind finally hinged shut. Shut tight.
The professor kept scrunching up her cute face and saying sweetly, "I really don't know what this class is about. I mean, what is style? So we talked about reality tv shows that she liked to watch, and blue jeans. The "peer review" of our first essay was jumbly and loud, students handing their half-done rough drafts (Imez, with her heart invested, had a fully completed final draft, begging for impurt) to two or three others. No critique offered, save my peer reviewer's suggesting I indent more. Then the professor began playing a youtube clip on the movie monitor. I asked, "Are we supposed to stop peer reviewing and watch this? (This loud, enormous thing) and she said, "Huh? No. This is just something I'm curious about at Rutgers."
Today when she announced our next writing project would be redesigning the University's Writing Courses webpage, which, she giggled, was actually her job but we were gonna do it instead, I pulled open my new laptop (Sean bought me especially to further my writing) and began playing Jewel Quest.
I am done. I wanted this class. I had....hope. I saw doors opening. I was wrong. If I quit now I get a little money back.
I drove home to Obama's swearing-in on AM radio, and I got teary. Partially hormonal, partially the grieving of my academic mis-step, and partially because I wanted to believe in my leader. At home, soon after my arrival, Sean called anyone emotionally moved by Obama and his pointless rhetoric a "sucker," at which point I began to cry very hard. Sean tried to apologize but his hands near me made me want to fling my arms around to get them away. He was then angry that he wasn't allowed to express a political opinion in his own house, that I stifle him with emotional manipulation. He has a point there, except I really can't agree it was malice-aforethought, my crying.
I put Smudge down to nap and left for awhile. I came back, desperate for activity as foreign as possible. So I sat on the cold cement in the back yard with the instruction booklet and taught myself to use our still-in-the-box electric chainsaw. We had an ice storm before Christmas, our trees lost limbs and branchs. I am from the mountains and had never even seen an electric chainsaw. I have also never handled any chainsaw.
I was so proud to have it going. To have even included the bar oil, a product which I never even new existed.
Within 8 minutes, I pushed the blade against the goddamn extension cord. I sawed the fucking extension cord.
I lost it. Black rage, screamed at Sean because who the fuck buys and ELECTRIC chainsaw. Screamed at how happy I imagined he was now, that I'd failed at one more thing. I was a failed writer, a politcal sucker, a failed student, a fatso, slovenly housekeeper, ugly, and now a failed fucking chainsaw operator.
He just stared, kept offering calming words that made me angrier and angrier. "I love you. I don't want to fight, I love you."
What happened between then and now I can't hardly remember. Except for watching different presidental inagriations on youtube and sobbing through all of them, even Harry Truman in a top hat. And that we had an awful awful day. And that it was really all my doing, just like Christmas.
Please, don't talk about Obama. I can't stand any more about Obama.
The professor kept scrunching up her cute face and saying sweetly, "I really don't know what this class is about. I mean, what is style? So we talked about reality tv shows that she liked to watch, and blue jeans. The "peer review" of our first essay was jumbly and loud, students handing their half-done rough drafts (Imez, with her heart invested, had a fully completed final draft, begging for impurt) to two or three others. No critique offered, save my peer reviewer's suggesting I indent more. Then the professor began playing a youtube clip on the movie monitor. I asked, "Are we supposed to stop peer reviewing and watch this? (This loud, enormous thing) and she said, "Huh? No. This is just something I'm curious about at Rutgers."
Today when she announced our next writing project would be redesigning the University's Writing Courses webpage, which, she giggled, was actually her job but we were gonna do it instead, I pulled open my new laptop (Sean bought me especially to further my writing) and began playing Jewel Quest.
I am done. I wanted this class. I had....hope. I saw doors opening. I was wrong. If I quit now I get a little money back.
I drove home to Obama's swearing-in on AM radio, and I got teary. Partially hormonal, partially the grieving of my academic mis-step, and partially because I wanted to believe in my leader. At home, soon after my arrival, Sean called anyone emotionally moved by Obama and his pointless rhetoric a "sucker," at which point I began to cry very hard. Sean tried to apologize but his hands near me made me want to fling my arms around to get them away. He was then angry that he wasn't allowed to express a political opinion in his own house, that I stifle him with emotional manipulation. He has a point there, except I really can't agree it was malice-aforethought, my crying.
I put Smudge down to nap and left for awhile. I came back, desperate for activity as foreign as possible. So I sat on the cold cement in the back yard with the instruction booklet and taught myself to use our still-in-the-box electric chainsaw. We had an ice storm before Christmas, our trees lost limbs and branchs. I am from the mountains and had never even seen an electric chainsaw. I have also never handled any chainsaw.
I was so proud to have it going. To have even included the bar oil, a product which I never even new existed.
Within 8 minutes, I pushed the blade against the goddamn extension cord. I sawed the fucking extension cord.
I lost it. Black rage, screamed at Sean because who the fuck buys and ELECTRIC chainsaw. Screamed at how happy I imagined he was now, that I'd failed at one more thing. I was a failed writer, a politcal sucker, a failed student, a fatso, slovenly housekeeper, ugly, and now a failed fucking chainsaw operator.
He just stared, kept offering calming words that made me angrier and angrier. "I love you. I don't want to fight, I love you."
What happened between then and now I can't hardly remember. Except for watching different presidental inagriations on youtube and sobbing through all of them, even Harry Truman in a top hat. And that we had an awful awful day. And that it was really all my doing, just like Christmas.
Please, don't talk about Obama. I can't stand any more about Obama.
posted by Imez at 8:42 PM
13 Comments:
I hate your professor. I'm glad you are writing on your blog, that seems to be a much better exercise in writing.
And for what it's worth, I've really been enjoying reading what you've written here.
It makes me sad to read this. Sad and worried.
i know this doesn't help, but I think you have to accept that you are a good writer. You know what good writing is, and you know what it takes to get there. A class provides some pretty good character material and deadlines, but an MFA is just a stalling mechanism.
But I'm sorry it sucks, because even though I know you don't need the class, it would have been nice to have a qualified, thoughtful instructor. Fuck is right.
Your writing is beautiful it moves me to tears before I even realize it...
And it also shows someone vulnerable, looking for a way to feel independent, yet part of something...
And it makes me worry for you.
Imez, I adore your writing, even when it makes me sad. That professor is a fuck. All the same, it's you that lost out and that just sucks.
The part with the losing it and all the things you imagine they think you are a failure at? The making a list? That scene has played in my movie, too. More than once. If it helps, know that you're not alone, with that. With any of it.
Well, then; we're in the same boat; I'm sick of all the Obama stuff at the moment. Let's get on with the promise fulfilling already JKJK. :)
I would get your money back and then go complain to whomever about the teacher not following the syllabus. Seriously; you know that it's not about you; she's an idiot. I'm sorry that you couldn't see it that way at the time, and I hope you feel better about it now. But anyway, WE're the only people whose opinions
about your writing count, right?
I popped by tonight(on a school night!) because your comment on my blog really cracked me up. You're a sweetheart. Hang in there, Friend.
Crap professors are a monumental waste of time. The good ones change lives. We need many more of the latter and far fewer of the former.
Redesigning a webpage!?! Augh. As an writing teacher at the community college here, that makes me want to scream. Take a poetry class, not an essay class. Or take creative non-fiction. Your writing is wonderful.
I love your writing. I hope you don't give up because of this horrid, horrible teacher. There are many great teachers out there and you will find one. (I attended a grad school not-so-lovingly dubbed "Sub-standard State College" by a classmate of mine. Oh, the crappy professors we suffered!)
Also, I have totally had that day. Mine didn't involve a chainsaw, but that day, where everything is wrong? I have too many of those lately. I feel that pain and it helps me to know I'm not the only one. Hope it helps you to hear it, too.
I took a college class once (at $200) that was supposed to be a Mac class (this was in the late 80s) and it basically turned out to be "how to turn it on and use MacPaint" or something equally moronic, and I HAD to take the class to get my graphic design certificate, which sucked as it was worthless.
Also, I have cut through the cord with an electric chainsaw before. You're not the only one. I'm lucky I didn't freaking electrocute myself.
Really. Once I almost poked out my eye with a 3 inch spike on a mesquite tree, narrowly missing my eye and instead stabbing myself in the middle of the forehead with it. And quitting then and there. I'm iinept with any kind of outdoor physical work. So while I know you're upsettedness hinged upon that, and was just tipped by it, you can take that off your list as there are others out there as completely unprepared to handle that sort of thing.
I hope you're feeling better. You really seem to have a lot on your plate lately, emotionally.
Also, apparently today I can't spell or punctuate correctly, so add that to my list.
i agree with all the professor comments. that's my job. unfortunately, the world of composition specialists is filled the confused and self-absorbed. there are great ones out there. sometimes it's good to suffer through and make it a game--study and note the unusual professor game. and great writing, by the way.
ok, Little sister, you won't fool a one of us, you know you are the shit. You know you could teach the class, you want imput, you want real world writing partners, people who can take a hard question, people who can throw the hard questions out there. You are such a perfectionist. So here is what I suggest. Hang a flyer in the local independent bookstore looking for writer's with which to share, or even better, grab students who are of the same ilk. You lead. Start your own writing group.
Your in that mom zone where you feel lost, looking for you when you are right there. Stop looking elsewhere baby. You are it, you are the shit.
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