Sunday, May 22, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Love/Hate Letter
Dear Student(s),
Thank you for taking the time to fill out this course evaluation form. Since most of you did not bother to take the survey, this letter is strictly intended for those who chose to proffer feedback.
After reading these evaluation comments, I feel that you simply treat this as an opportunity to express both your disdain and your respect toward me. Instead of critical constructive criticism, I am left with a personality profile that would make a multiple personality disordered individual look positively normal. My job is to push you. I will push you out of your circumstances and out of your comfort zones, and because of this; I am both maligned and adored. No matter – my skin is so callused, it is almost impenetrable.
This isn’t supposed to be an easy or comfortable process for either of us. If it were; well, I’d be wasting your time and your money, not to mention stunting my own growth as an instructor. Unlike some of the teachers you’ve had in the past, I take my job seriously, and yes, I care. And, I will continue to care more than you’ll ever realize. Remember, I am a human being and, amazingly, have feelings too. After reading these assessments, I walk away feeling the accolades and the worthlessness simultaneously. Above all else, consider this: I didn’t give you the final grade; you earned it.
Earnestly,
Emily
Thank you for taking the time to fill out this course evaluation form. Since most of you did not bother to take the survey, this letter is strictly intended for those who chose to proffer feedback.
After reading these evaluation comments, I feel that you simply treat this as an opportunity to express both your disdain and your respect toward me. Instead of critical constructive criticism, I am left with a personality profile that would make a multiple personality disordered individual look positively normal. My job is to push you. I will push you out of your circumstances and out of your comfort zones, and because of this; I am both maligned and adored. No matter – my skin is so callused, it is almost impenetrable.
This isn’t supposed to be an easy or comfortable process for either of us. If it were; well, I’d be wasting your time and your money, not to mention stunting my own growth as an instructor. Unlike some of the teachers you’ve had in the past, I take my job seriously, and yes, I care. And, I will continue to care more than you’ll ever realize. Remember, I am a human being and, amazingly, have feelings too. After reading these assessments, I walk away feeling the accolades and the worthlessness simultaneously. Above all else, consider this: I didn’t give you the final grade; you earned it.
Earnestly,
Emily
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Kilarney Beach - Bay City, MI
The fog is hanging outside the big
Bay window as if it thinks it is canvas,
And I am blind.
This house built behind a rusty
Seawall smells of a brandy brown
Dependence and grandma’s White Linen.
A scent I will later wear, but
She doesn’t know that now.
The storm is forming cannon
Blasts of warm fishy yellowness,
And I want to run from the waves
Which grow – and intensify their
Thrashing on the old seawall.
She has started the dishwasher,
So the room is one big roaring rush
Of swishes perforated with talk of sleep.
I am tired,
But the storm is alive and the smokestacks
Across the bay are blinking at me
Through a small slice in the fog.
They are waiting for me to join them
In the gigantic grey.
Bay window as if it thinks it is canvas,
And I am blind.
This house built behind a rusty
Seawall smells of a brandy brown
Dependence and grandma’s White Linen.
A scent I will later wear, but
She doesn’t know that now.
The storm is forming cannon
Blasts of warm fishy yellowness,
And I want to run from the waves
Which grow – and intensify their
Thrashing on the old seawall.
She has started the dishwasher,
So the room is one big roaring rush
Of swishes perforated with talk of sleep.
I am tired,
But the storm is alive and the smokestacks
Across the bay are blinking at me
Through a small slice in the fog.
They are waiting for me to join them
In the gigantic grey.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Creative Writing Every Damned Day
Do creative writing skills have anything to do with everyday life? As a teacher, I’m inclined to respond “hell yes” to this question, but I’m sure I would disappoint many if I just left it at that. Being able to use words creatively, allows a person to inspire others, to express herself clearly and artistically, and most importantly, to turn the ordinary into something semi-magical. God bless the poets and painters, for without them, dullness couldn’t begin to describe our worldly predicament.
I am a writer, and therefore, a reader as well. Reading the works of others has inspired a multitude of thoughts, feelings, and yes, the occasional final project paper. I would like to say I have original work (wouldn’t any artist) but in reality we are all grasping at ideas that have long since been explored. Ahhh, what magnificence it must have been to tackle the human condition the way Shakespeare did before Freud came in and fucked with it. Or, the adrenaline rush Chaucer must have felt to toss perverted witticisms into his work, knowing full well he could be excommunicated and/or beheaded. Essentially, we’ve been drawing on each other’s thoughts and observations for a very long time. I can only hope (wonder) if someone ages from now looks at my work and says, “That reminds me of…”
Artistic self-expression does not equal snobbery. No, to the contrary, in my opinion, it requires a person to have what I like to call “humble guts.” Being unassumingly brave may be new territory for some, but I do believe it’s possible. One must not let the constant barrage of criticism affect the innate need for her innovative eloquence. I take what is necessary from the critics, but no more. In addition, I always walk away with pride and self-determination intact.
Even more important than confidence, is that I can make doing dishes divine, scrubbing sinks supernatural, or baking mostaccioli mystical. How? Creative writing makes my life somewhat magical in many unexpected ways. Somehow through years of word skills and observations, I came to the (not always pleasant) conclusion that the language arts were my ticket to a more mysterious explanation of the everyday. Damn the dullness!
I am a writer, and therefore, a reader as well. Reading the works of others has inspired a multitude of thoughts, feelings, and yes, the occasional final project paper. I would like to say I have original work (wouldn’t any artist) but in reality we are all grasping at ideas that have long since been explored. Ahhh, what magnificence it must have been to tackle the human condition the way Shakespeare did before Freud came in and fucked with it. Or, the adrenaline rush Chaucer must have felt to toss perverted witticisms into his work, knowing full well he could be excommunicated and/or beheaded. Essentially, we’ve been drawing on each other’s thoughts and observations for a very long time. I can only hope (wonder) if someone ages from now looks at my work and says, “That reminds me of…”
Artistic self-expression does not equal snobbery. No, to the contrary, in my opinion, it requires a person to have what I like to call “humble guts.” Being unassumingly brave may be new territory for some, but I do believe it’s possible. One must not let the constant barrage of criticism affect the innate need for her innovative eloquence. I take what is necessary from the critics, but no more. In addition, I always walk away with pride and self-determination intact.
Even more important than confidence, is that I can make doing dishes divine, scrubbing sinks supernatural, or baking mostaccioli mystical. How? Creative writing makes my life somewhat magical in many unexpected ways. Somehow through years of word skills and observations, I came to the (not always pleasant) conclusion that the language arts were my ticket to a more mysterious explanation of the everyday. Damn the dullness!
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Night Rabbits
You don’t think
I see you,
Quivering behind the
Birch and pine.
A primitive shyness,
Wide-eyed and nibbling
Under a dark uncertain sky.
Your nervous mother
Fears for you.
I too, have felt this
Tug between anxiety and pride.
Dearest child,
Whether in the concealing woods,
Or out where the sun can
Cuddle your livelihood,
Remember –
Present to the world
Your most serene face.
I see you,
Quivering behind the
Birch and pine.
A primitive shyness,
Wide-eyed and nibbling
Under a dark uncertain sky.
Your nervous mother
Fears for you.
I too, have felt this
Tug between anxiety and pride.
Dearest child,
Whether in the concealing woods,
Or out where the sun can
Cuddle your livelihood,
Remember –
Present to the world
Your most serene face.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
More than Fuel
Many times our sustenance stems from a half-assed mish-mash quickly thrown together in some sort of pot, pan, or standard kitchen-issue vessel. This rather flippant attitude towards food preparation is not only disrespectful, but more importantly, shoves our connections to the meal to the back burner (pun intended). Cooking food well demonstrates respect for the ingredients, for the consumers, and for the people preparing the meal.
Something had to die so that we may eat, and therefore, live. The flora and fauna of the world are continually sacrificed for our sake, and even though it is the natural order of things, respect for these plants and animals appears to be lacking in the final culinary equation. Perhaps we are appalled to think too precisely about where our food comes from. After all, it is easier to avoid thinking too much about food origins when the majority of our ingredients come entombed in some sort of shrink wrap. Ultimately, it isn’t the exalted meat producers that get sacrificed for our dinner plate. The salads and grains (yes, I’m talking to the vegetarians out there) were once living growing plants. By preparing the very best salads and breads, we are respecting these mighty morsels.
Interestingly, the care and attention given to the ingredients has a way of transferring itself to the person consuming the meal. Chain-O-Rama restaurant meals are not made with love, care, or much attention. The meals most Americans consume are formulaic and fraught with ennui. We deserve better than this damnit! There is a distinct reason why grandma’s cooking always tastes so wonderful – For God’s sake, she is Grandma.
Last of all, how does cooking well manifest esteem within the cook? When one goes into the kitchen and starts gathering ingredients, there is inherently a certain level of self-esteem that follows her into that room. Meticulously chopping, slicing, and sautéing require a person to have some sort of regard for the food he or she is about to prepare, not to mention some awareness so as not to lose pieces of digits. Fixing a meal to the best of one’s ability (not just major holiday feasts) calls for some self-worth. Granted, there may be fear involved, but look at it this way; many courageous cooks have had many culinary catastrophes, and have walked away relatively unscathed (oven/oil burns not withstanding).
In closing, a little dirt in the diet is a good thing, and if one has to lift a lowly inch worm from her lettuce leaf, it only means the meal is real. Cooking food well spotlights respect for our food, love for our fellow dinner companions, and a sense of self-worth that cannot be obtained in a drive-thru.
Something had to die so that we may eat, and therefore, live. The flora and fauna of the world are continually sacrificed for our sake, and even though it is the natural order of things, respect for these plants and animals appears to be lacking in the final culinary equation. Perhaps we are appalled to think too precisely about where our food comes from. After all, it is easier to avoid thinking too much about food origins when the majority of our ingredients come entombed in some sort of shrink wrap. Ultimately, it isn’t the exalted meat producers that get sacrificed for our dinner plate. The salads and grains (yes, I’m talking to the vegetarians out there) were once living growing plants. By preparing the very best salads and breads, we are respecting these mighty morsels.
Interestingly, the care and attention given to the ingredients has a way of transferring itself to the person consuming the meal. Chain-O-Rama restaurant meals are not made with love, care, or much attention. The meals most Americans consume are formulaic and fraught with ennui. We deserve better than this damnit! There is a distinct reason why grandma’s cooking always tastes so wonderful – For God’s sake, she is Grandma.
Last of all, how does cooking well manifest esteem within the cook? When one goes into the kitchen and starts gathering ingredients, there is inherently a certain level of self-esteem that follows her into that room. Meticulously chopping, slicing, and sautéing require a person to have some sort of regard for the food he or she is about to prepare, not to mention some awareness so as not to lose pieces of digits. Fixing a meal to the best of one’s ability (not just major holiday feasts) calls for some self-worth. Granted, there may be fear involved, but look at it this way; many courageous cooks have had many culinary catastrophes, and have walked away relatively unscathed (oven/oil burns not withstanding).
In closing, a little dirt in the diet is a good thing, and if one has to lift a lowly inch worm from her lettuce leaf, it only means the meal is real. Cooking food well spotlights respect for our food, love for our fellow dinner companions, and a sense of self-worth that cannot be obtained in a drive-thru.
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