The Northward Contrail

Consequences

I was raised in a family where we had a very strong sense of right and wrong.  It was reinforced not only through what we learned in church and at school, but also in the family itself.  Early on, I knew that my actions would bring consequences, and it really helped keep me in line.  I found out, for instance, that if I tore up my brother's things for fun, I'd get punished.  Over time, I came to know that the real bad feeling didn't come from any physical punishment; it came from knowing you'd disappointed those closest to you, and that you'd let them down.

From all these institutions in our small town, we got an education in the social contract.  It was never openly stated in so many words (I can't imagine my family sitting around discussing the social contract), but it was just considered "the right thing to do."  We knew, for instance, that if someone was hurt that you looked in on them to make sure they were okay.  If a neighbor needed help, you'd come over.  If somebody's dog got lost and wandered over, you called them to let them know.  Yes, people could annoy the crap out of one another in my hometown, and the gossip could be stifling at times, but you always knew that when things hit the wall, somebody would look out for you. 

Along with those things was a knowledge of the things you just as importantly didn't do.  You didn't, for instance, bad-mouth someone's family or friends or religion (at least not in front of them).  You watched your language.  You took turns speaking.  You listened.  You never treated yourself as more important than the other person.  And you behaved.  As a child, you always knew that anything you did, your parents would find out.  That was plenty of incentive to mind what you did.

Out of this childhood -- and I make it sound like I grew up in Mayberry, which to some extent I did, but the real versions of Mayberry aren't as idyllic as you'd be tempted to think -- came a real sense of right and wrong.  Which, as you can imagine, meant that I'd be in for quite the shock when the time came to go elsewhere, and be around people who weren't raised the way I was.  There was quite the period when I'd get very frustrated because all around me, I'd see rules being broken and no one facing any consequences for them. 

To some extent, I've become numbed to it, but it still doesn't stop me from grumbling about it.  For instance, I can see trash strewn all over a roadside or in a parking lot, and wonder what kind of self-respect a person can have who does that.  Or I see someone tearing through a stop sign and not even thinking twice about it (not only rude, but also potentially fatal, and few things get me angrier than someone knowingly creating a situation that could put someone else in danger).  In fact, one of the worst instances happened a few years ago, when we stopped at the local rifle range.  We were sitting in the truck, and there was this one guy with a fancy rifle who had an audience.  He was showing off, and not watching where the weapon was pointing.  At one point he rather casually waved it in our direction.  I told hubby, "Let's get out of here."  I wasn't comfortable being within range of someone acting like that: one of the people who act stupid and get someone hurt or killed.

I get along okay in the modern world.  Or, at least, I've learned to get by while hanging on to my sanity.  On the other hand, I often feel I was literally raised in a different time, in a different world.  Quite often, I don't recognize what's around me.  I like some of the changes I see -- the diversity's a good thing, for one, and the technology's also nice -- but, on the other hand, I'm really taken aback by the toxic levels of disregard, both for other people and for the consequences of one's own actions, I often see around me.  I may have learned to grit my teeth and bear it, but it doesn't stop me from saying, "You know, my mama and daddy taught me better than that."  I may not always live up to their expectations, but I'm glad, at least, they taught me that much.

The one thing you can't fool

We live in a world where the truth is often seen as what you construct it to be.  Every day, I have somebody trying to lay something on me -- be it at work, or online, or on my television.  I can't get away from somebody trying to tell me that X is Y, or Y is Z, or you name it.  And often I feel inadequate to respond to these things, because sometimes the partisans will really be wrapped around the axle about it. 

I think the fact I feel so ill-equipped in these circumstances is directly related to the comfort I have in dealing with more scientific and mechanical things.  People can interpret something a hundred different ways, but there's a comfort I take in knowing that if I take apart one of my typewriters and do something, I know what it's going to do and how to fix it.  I like that if I'm at my workbench working on a model, I know how the putty is going to react with the plastic, or how the paint's going to lay down. 

I've never had much mathematical or scientific ability.  To some extent, I regret that because there are so many things in those realms that fascinate me.  (Were I a little more telegenic and a little more powerful in the scientific/analytical part of my brain, I'd love to be a science journalist, sort of a latter day Jules Bergman.  But, when the scientific parts of brains were being handed out, I must have been out getting doughnuts instead.)  I completely bombed everything past Pre-Algebra, but, man, I love how math works.  I couldn't understand a lick of college Chemistry, but I loved working in the lab, finding out in experiments how Part A would react with Part B.  The bookwork of physics makes my brain fold up like a cheap card table, but I love the experiments and the theories, that if this happens then that will follow. 

There's a comforting predictability to it.  It's certainty in a world full of uncertainty.  It all reminds us that, no matter what we humans may think we can do, Mother Nature (whom, of course, it's not nice to fool) will have the last word.

Waiting

I've written on here before about how I have this love for working alone.  Part of it is because my interests are so obscure, and I have this craftsman's mindset.  But the other reason?  I hate waiting on other folks.  Because, nine times out of ten, they have different priorities.

I never really cared for group projects back in the day.  We'd get to work on them, and if it was a group of five, perhaps three of us would throw our all into it.  There would be a fourth who would provide some effort, and then a fifth who would just phone it in, if we got participation at all.  It almost always goes that way, I've found.  That's part of why I don't make a practice of assigning group projects to my students.  I know that some circumstances call for it (there's no practical way, for instance, you can put on a decent live-to-tape television show with only one person running everything), but other times, it's just a mess and people get frustrated.  Sometimes you'll have an excellent manager who will stay after those who slack up, but sometimes you don't.

If I have a working partner who has the same "let's get this done" mindset, then I'm happy.  But sometimes I'll have to work with folks who will work for a bit, put it aside, and I have to remind them.  And then they'll work on it a little, and then it'll ebb.  Worse, it'll be something I can't easily take elsewhere, because there's some organizational or proprietary reason.  Even worse, it'll be a project I can't just abandon, either because I've given my word on it or because it's a project that really, seriously needs doing.

I'm a world-champion procrastinator, and I'll be the first one to call myself out on that.  On the other hand, when someone else is involved, and it needs to get done...well, you know.

Wheeeee

It's the start of a week off.  I'm slowly remembering what it's like to relax and feel emotions again.  It's nice to be free, if only fleetingly, of the demands that the office brings, of feeling that any task I begin will potentially be interrupted by something else.  So I plan not to think about too much today.  I'd like to get my mental train back on the tracks.

See you tomorrow.

A little breather

Today's the last day before Spring Break.  If they haven't already, the kids are starting to desert campus.  As much of a hassle as it is when they scram early, part of me can't blame them.  Heck, part of me envies them a tiny bit.

They're ready for a week off.  So am I.  It's not that I don't like being around them.  I love my kids.  Sure, they can tax you, but when things are good, they're really good.  On the other hand, spend enough time around anyone and you'll need some time to yourself.  I don't care how close your relationship is, or how much you love them.  Sometimes you just need to get away for a bit. 

For my part, it'll be nice to have a week without getting up way too early, driving through the dark so I can get into the office and have some time to get my head together and catch up on tasks before anyone can come by and want something.  It'll be nice to not feel the need to get my work done two days in advance so I don't have to fret about whether it's done.  It'll be nice to not put in a string of really long days when I've gone in before sunrise and gone home after sunset.  It'll be nice to be reminded what direct sunlight is like for more than a few moments.  It'll be nice to come back home after being out, not feeling like my body and mind are like a cigarette that's been smoked down to the filter tip.  (Bad analogy, I know, but that's the way I feel most days.)

And it'll be nice to take care of some personal matters that have gone undone.  There's some housework that's gone undone, a project or two I'd like to resume.  I'd like to get in the car one day next week, take a little drive, and renew some old acquaintances from too long ago. 

Above all else, I'd just like a little time to get my head together.  There's a lot coming up in the second half of this semester: big assignments, a bunch of meetings (they always come just before the end), two more newspaper layouts, and the guaranteed drama of seniors realizing that no, they won't graduate unless they overcome procrastination. 

There's going to be plenty enough for everybody come the second half.  For next week, though, my brain's going to enjoy the quiet.

The measure of success

"You have reached the pinnacle of success as soon as you become uninterested in money, compliments or publicity." -- Eddie Rickenbacker

A few weeks ago, a former student came back to visit.  She's a recent graduate who now works as a television reporter, and I turned over my journalism class to her that day so she could tell them what it's like in the real world.  And the darnedest thing happened when we were talking before class: she told me that all the little things I made her do, all the guidelines I had the students follow on the assignments, all the rules I set down for my classes...once she got out there reporting for a living, and answering to a real boss, it all made sense.  In fact, she said, it's all made her one of the more on-the-spot people at that station.  Her bosses have noticed this, and have given her more opportunities because of it.  She told the class the same thing, too.

It'd be easy for me to get a swelled head over this.  Instead, it gave me reassurance.  It's the kind of feedback I appreciate most: hey, what you did back then helped me get where I am now, and I appreciate it.  That's why I come to work each day.

One of our occupational hazards is the instructor evaluation.  We have to do it.  And sometimes they're fun to read.  A former colleague used to talk about how reading evaluations was something you did with a good bottle of wine nearby to help you through it.  Sometimes the feedback is good, sometimes it's perceptive, but other times it's painful. The kids, they can be sharp sometimes.  Other times, they look at it from the perspective of someone who's just trying to get through something temporary, while what frustrates you is that you're trying to train them for a career, and for the rest of their lives.  I never have been that concerned that you like what I teach you now; instead, I'm teaching you for that moment a few years from now when you have to know what to do when the bell rings.

Evaluations hurt doubly when you're young and starting out, not only because the students can be sharp and pointy in their remarks, but because you know your future prospects at a job ride on them.  They're not the only thing, but let's just say you're acutely aware of them.  They also hurt because your skin hasn't yet thickened, as it will in a few years.  I've seen enough sideways comments now that when I brief the students on the evaluations, I give them self-deprecating (and made up) examples of the kinds of comments that won't provide me with the constructive criticism I need. 

(And there is a kind of feedback that I do need, of course.  But comments about my hair or my clothes, or how you think such and such an assignment was "stupid," don't help, especially if you don't tell me why it was so "stupid."  Was it "stupid" because you didn't see how the material fit into the overall course, or was it "stupid" because you didn't study for it?  In the first case, somewhat legitimate gripe.  In the second case, your failure to prepare was your own undoing.)

As you go on, one gift you get is the ability to deal with these kinds of things, and to tune out what doesn't matter.  You do the best you can, treat the students with kindness and fairness, handle the material with competence, but have high expectations.  Then you learn that, even then, you can't please everyone.  But even with that, if you're fortunate you develop a kind of peace about that.  You know what you're doing.  You've fixed the things that were broken.  You listen to your conscience when you're handling a situation.  And you're able to sleep at night after the decisions you've made.  Over time, you get that quiet satisfaction that comes with doing your job well, with heart and integrity. 

And you find that's the real reward. Like Cap'n Eddie said, the other things don't matter.  You know the real rewards come from within.  (Or the somewhat parallel Arline Feynman rule: "What do you care what other people think?")

Awards are okay.  (I've won one or two, probably by default.)  And money is helpful.  (Though too much can become a trap.)  And publicity is okay (though I avoid it).  I have a very nice education and a decent mind.  If I wanted, I could probably become a big deal at some big research institution.  But I don't need that, and I'm not sure I want it.  All the money in the world, all the compliments and awards, and all the publicity I could get don't matter as much as knowing I can come in each day and do what I do to the best of my ability, and come home feeling I did something.  That's the real reward.  And when a former student comes back with stories of life in the real world, and says "Now I understand," that's as good as a bowl of ice cream. 

Cap'n Eddie, you were on to something.

The musical ambush

I love music.  Sometimes I hate music.  And other times, I love and hate it at the same time.  There's a handful of very lovely songs like this; they tap too deeply into my heart and make me start crying because they remind me too much of how much I love.  For instance, I've never seen Dumbo all the way through because I know what's going to happen when the scene starts when Dumbo visits his imprisoned mom and "Baby Mine" starts up.  Not only is it going to make me cry then and there, but it'll stay in my head for the next few days, no matter what I do, and it'll whack me in the kneecap when I least expect it.

Right up there with that is "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face." Any version of it can do it, but Roberta Flack will forever own that song, and there's an ache in her voice as she sings it that really brings on the tears for me.  (Here's the story behind that ache, by the way, which will break your heart.)  It drilled me enough when I was single, but, oh, how it takes on new meaning once you've found someone and shared your life with that person for years and years.

And then one sneaks up on you.  That's what happened with "I Say A Little Prayer."  One night a few years ago, hubby and I were sitting on the couch listening to the radio, and that came on.  And I thought, "Holy cow, that's exactly what I do for him, too, isn't it?"  And the lump came to my throat.  I'd put that aside for a little while, but one day a couple weeks back we were at home and that song was played at the end of a Cold Case re-run.  Sure enough, there's that lump in my throat again, and the tears weren't that far behind.  Nor were they the next morning, when I thought about it.

Music, why must you be so eloquently accurate?  And why must you lodge in my brain like a Milk Dud in my teeth?

Knowing what you don't

Life's full of little lessons.  One of them is learning to recognize not only what you do know, but what you don't.

I can't begin to count the number of times I've been bitten by this.  Sometimes I've gotten away with it.  Other times, though, I've spoken -- whether out loud, or online, or wherever -- and, sure enough, someone who knew more came right in and said "That's not so, and here's why."  Once in a while, they're not right.  But, sometimes, they are.  The trick is in tamping down your ego enough to give them a hearing, to see if what they say passes the sniff test, to check out the evidence. 

I've never made any bones about what I do.  I was a minor-league newspaper reporter.  I didn't work for a big daily paper; I worked for a weekly whose trail from printing press to birdcage liner could probably be measured with a stopwatch.  Before that, I worked in radio, doing little grunt jobs at the station.  I've published some things here and there.  I accidented my way into higher education.  I fell into communications and journalism, and I'm having a blast there, but if I had my druthers, I'd be a research librarian or an archivist.  I have a craftsman's mindset, and I'd rather sit in the back and put great effort into creating little masterpieces than be out front and on top.

And I also grew up being reminded that I didn't know everything.  That's one of the weird blessings of my upbringing.  It was impressive that I could name all the Presidents when I was in second grade, but my parents were just as concerned that I knew the things they felt were important.  They never wanted me to lose sight of little things, little essential skills.  And my family -- both the extended elements and the nucleus -- never let me get high on my own knowledge, or above my raisin'.  And they reminded me that, no, no matter what you think, you don't know everything, and you should never believe you do.  From an early age, it was driven home to me that arrogance is a deadly sin.

As I've gone through life, I've frequently been the first to puncture my own balloon, or to admit a flaw in an argument, or to concede a point.  But I remain boggled by how many people I come across who are convinced they are absolutely, positively correct.  About everything.  Point out an inconsistency and they take it personally.  Disagree with them, and it means war.  You may as well have personally attacked them.  They don't recognize that, in some ways, those kinds of admissions can add to your credibility.  Nope, instead, it's all about them and their proclaimed right to not be wrong, to be on top and unchallenged and unchallengeable.

And that's...pretty bad.  That's not the kind of person I want to be.  And it's not the kind of company I want to keep.  There are all kinds of stories about arrogance costing people friendships, costing them jobs, sometimes even costing them their lives.  ("Ah, this ain't nothin' to worry about!  Only a wimp would worry about --" [followed by "sound of impact/end of recording"])

Yes, I know that I know a lot.  That's good.  But I'm also painfully aware of how much I don't know.  I'm also aware there are a lot of people out there who know more about certain things than I do.  The only things I really feel qualified to act as an expert on -- and even then, with certain qualifications -- are the things of, and related to, my own life.  I have a fancy title at my workplace.  I have a really fabulous education, with a couple of mildly expensive graduate degrees.  But it doesn't mean I'm any smarter or wiser than I was before.  If anything, it's made me more aware of what I don't know.

Somehow, though, the awareness of what you don't know sometimes has more power than what you do know.  And, often, it's what keeps you out of really bad situations.

On not phoning it in this time

It's coming up on the semester midpoint, and so far, it's gone well.  I never thought I'd hear myself say that, but it's true.

Up until last semester, I often operated by the seat of my pants.  Some classes, I'd have lecture notes, but in others I'd let the class dictate its own flow.  Sometimes, that was a good thing.  Most of the time, it wasn't that wise.  In addition, I'd let myself get crossed up on my own course policies, and sometimes I'd fly by the seat of my pants on those, too.  I'd look the other way sometimes when I should have put my foot down, and then later I'd get mad with myself for being such a soft touch.

I'd been able to get away with it until something happened one day last semester, and a situation with a student and an ambiguous policy (and something I didn't remember saying, too, and probably didn't say) made my whole world blow up in my face.  As painful as that was to endure, I probably had it coming.

After that, out of determination as much as irritation, I started overhauling everything.  And I mean everything.  Syllabi got retouched, reviewed, and retouched again.  New lecture notes got written for courses I'd previously just sort of floated through.  New assignments and exercises were created.  The autopilot I'd been operating on for six years was switched off.  Now, my hands would be on the yoke, my head would be on a swivel and my eyes would be out the window, always looking to head off trouble before it began.  

It all looked great in theory.  But then January came, and with it a new semester.  I wondered if I'd be able to make it happen.  But the first day came, and I laid it out.  New rules, new expectations, new assignments and new opportunities.  And to my surprise, thus far it's worked.  The problems that plagued me last semester have pretty much gone away.  Not every problem is solved -- some, no matter how you try, you won't be able to prevent -- but most of this semester, so far, has been completely different.  Better still, the courses with retouched notes have gone very well, and the students have responded favorably to the new exercises and activities.  

The best part, though, has been that I literally feel different, and for the better.  For the last few years, I've almost behaved as if my career was some sort of accident and I was just playing along the best I could.  Oh, I hit my marks and delivered the material fine, but there wasn't too much fire there.  Now, though, my attitude is different.  Now I feel in command of myself, and of my material.  I do things with more confidence.  I don't walk into the classroom with dread the way I used to.  It's almost like, over the off-season, I told myself, "It's time you really got serious about this."  So I did.

And to think, all this happened because of one of the worst days of my professional life.  Sometimes the most useful education does come from a skinned knee.

The cornfield

You've probably seen that Twilight Zone episode "It's a Good Life."  It's the one where the little kid is the ultimate bully: he can read people's minds, and has the power to make horrible things happen.  If he didn't like someone, one of the things he could do was "wish them away to the cornfield." Years later, the actor who played the little kid told an interviewer that, mentally, a little bit of that remains and he thinks about the cornfield when someone makes him mad.

One of the things I'm trying to work on in this life is forgiveness.  I try to be as forgiving as I can, but sometimes someone will just lay into me, and I really have trouble letting go of it.  For instance, a few years ago while serving as a forum moderator, I upset someone who wasn't even a participant in the original discussion, and I got this outrageously offended e-mail from this person who tried to use all this legalistic jargon on me, who tried to impress me with all this about how he'd written outraged letters to politicians and to companies to express his displeasure with things they'd done, and all that sort of stuff.  Basically, it was the kind of spleen-venting I'd worked through by the time I was 25, when I finally realized the world was indeed cruel and owed me nothing, and the best I could do is realize that not every inconvenience or disappointment in life is a Constitutional Law case.  I tried to reason with him, but how can you when someone acts as if "offended" is an ennobled state?  After a while, I realized it was pointless, so it was off to the cornfield with him.

That's one example.  There have been others through the years.  Most recently, I let myself get pulled into a debate with an ideologue, one of these types who's unavoidable, who injects politics into subjects even when they're not political in nature, one of these types who likes the tussle...and one of these types who doesn't exactly go by accepted forensic standards when he wants to make a point, if you catch my drift. I got out of it when I'd said my piece and realized it was serving no further purpose, but I still felt dirty for having let myself get drawn in, especially after having seen countless times over how this person operates. Yes, there had come the moment of "that's all I can stands, I can't stands no more," and I landed my punches, but all this time later, I'm having trouble letting it go.  I can't figure out if I'm madder because this person operates this way, or because I let myself get sucked into a losing proposition to begin with.  To some extent, I'm still fuming about it, and I feel stupid for it. 

The worst part?  When someone offends me -- even if it's not something done directly to me, but even if they rub me the wrong way somehow -- more often than not, I want nothing to do with them, ever again.  I talk a lot about how life is shades of gray, but I'm the first to admit I'm a phony when the rubber meets the road. When somebody does this kind of thing, I want to send them off to the cornfield.  I avoid them in person, and I avoid them online, and when their names come up in conversation or even cross my mind in passing, I start to glower.  In fairness, it takes something big to set me off like this, but once you get on my bad side, it's awful hard to get out.  I have a longer memory than I really need for this kind of thing.  I don't wish anything bad on you when you cross me, and I don't stop respecting you as a human being...but let's just say that, in certain regards, you no longer matter.  And I'm not so sure that's a healthy attitude to carry through life.

Someday soon, I hope, I'll finally get it right and become proficient in sending the experience, and not the person, to the cornfield.