I learned this morning that John Updike died yesterday.
My first exposure to Updike's writing was in The New Yorker. I began reading my high school library's copy of the magazine when I was a senior in high school. Still today I can remember sitting on the unforgiving, denim-worn wooden chairs in the magazine nook of the library and reading one of the many short stories Updike published in The New Yorker. I liked the story so much that I went to Oz, a local magazine shop, and bought the issue. It was then, because of Updike, that I became a regular reader of The New Yorker. After scanning the table of contents and seeing his name as the author of a short story, a book review, a Talk of the Town column—it happened several times a year—I knew it would be a good issue. I looked forward to those issues.
And now another great American author has left us. We bid you farewell, Mr. Updike, and may you rest in peace.
Another article on Updike.
1.28.2009
1.26.2009
So foul and fair a day I have not seen
While I was eating lunch today, it occurred to me that this is usually the time of year I begin teaching Macbeth to my seniors.
And I miss it.
Don't get me wrong, teaching Shakespearean drama to urban rednecks is not without its challenges: We read most if not all of it aloud, and most students struggle to understand the plot, let alone appreciate the literary genius of the work. Yet some of them do.
Regardless, teaching Macbeth in the winter gives me the chance to be reacquainted with one of Shakespeare's great tragedies; without it, I feel like a beloved family member is missing from the table at Christmas dinner.
So I think it's time to call up that long lost Scotsman and plan an afternoon together, perhaps a lunch date.
And I miss it.
Don't get me wrong, teaching Shakespearean drama to urban rednecks is not without its challenges: We read most if not all of it aloud, and most students struggle to understand the plot, let alone appreciate the literary genius of the work. Yet some of them do.
Regardless, teaching Macbeth in the winter gives me the chance to be reacquainted with one of Shakespeare's great tragedies; without it, I feel like a beloved family member is missing from the table at Christmas dinner.
So I think it's time to call up that long lost Scotsman and plan an afternoon together, perhaps a lunch date.
1.19.2009
My Spidey Sense is Tingling
Recently Barack Obama was on the cover of a special edition Spider-Man comic. It seems that our president elect has reached a new level of coolness: even Spidey wants to fist-bump Obama.
I can't help but think, on the eve of the inauguration, that Stan Lee's portrayal of Obama is representative of the glorification of Obama these past several months. He was elected on a platform of hope and change, and America expects the promises made on the campaign trail to come to immediate fruition. In actuality, it will be remarkable if Obama accomplishes his goals in four or even eight years; more likely, he will insight change that will need to be carried through by future administrations.
Obama may rightfully be thrilled that he is partnered with Spider-Man, but I couldn't blame this mortal if it also gives him pause. There are high expectations of this man, higher than for any president in recent memory. This may either result in disappointment—for no man could live up to these expectations—or America's rose-colored glasses will forgive him for merely being a man.
I can't help but think, on the eve of the inauguration, that Stan Lee's portrayal of Obama is representative of the glorification of Obama these past several months. He was elected on a platform of hope and change, and America expects the promises made on the campaign trail to come to immediate fruition. In actuality, it will be remarkable if Obama accomplishes his goals in four or even eight years; more likely, he will insight change that will need to be carried through by future administrations.
Obama may rightfully be thrilled that he is partnered with Spider-Man, but I couldn't blame this mortal if it also gives him pause. There are high expectations of this man, higher than for any president in recent memory. This may either result in disappointment—for no man could live up to these expectations—or America's rose-colored glasses will forgive him for merely being a man.
1.15.2009
For the Love of the Game
My father is a baseball fan. When we visited colleges my junior and senior years of high school, we would be one of the few families in the bleachers watching the D-III team play ball. If, when he's driving any distance, he comes upon a little league game, he will stop and watch unknown teams in an unfamiliar suburb.
And, like most New Yorkers, my father bleeds pinstripes. He holds Friday night season tickets at Yankee Stadium, and was present at the end of last season when the Yanks played their final game in the House that Ruth Built.
The Yanks will play their next season opener in a newer, cleaner, and soulless stadium located adjacent to the Bronx's Mecca. The stadium promises to be more luxurious, with a high-def LED scoreboard, cup holders, more restrooms (1 per 60 guests, versus 1 per 89 fans in the old stadium), and wider seats to accommodate the girth that has been added to the average New Yorker's gut (19-24-inch width, versus the old stadium's 18-22 inches).
But that's not all fans are getting. They're getting fewer seats, more luxury boxes (for fans, indeed), and higher prices on seats that allow fans to see the field without the aid of binoculars. The "legends" seating, whose price is not published in the club's official website, is rumored to contain seats costing $500 to $2500 per ticket.
Not everyone can buy these seats—doubtlessly, however, corporations have—but even seats in the terrace (mezzanine) section of the stadium pay $40-75 per ticket per game. The $12 bleachers and $20-25 grandstands, however, are still available for those with eagle vision or a thin wallet.
These ticket prices do not also include the cost of parking or subway/rail tickets, or the cost of food or beverage. It's not unreasonable (by Yankee Stadium standards) for two people to spend an additional $50-100 to travel to and eat at a game.
I like to believe that baseball is America's pastime because it is accessible to all Americans: urban, rural, rich, poor, and, incidentally, immigrants with a mean fastball. The final cost of attending a game at Yankee stadium, however, has become prohibitively expensive when it is "cheap" for a father to spend $100 to take his boy to a ballgame. It feels as though the notion of loving the sport of baseball has been tainted, and we must look to the game at its roots: a ball, a bat, and a mound of dirt.
And, like most New Yorkers, my father bleeds pinstripes. He holds Friday night season tickets at Yankee Stadium, and was present at the end of last season when the Yanks played their final game in the House that Ruth Built.
The Yanks will play their next season opener in a newer, cleaner, and soulless stadium located adjacent to the Bronx's Mecca. The stadium promises to be more luxurious, with a high-def LED scoreboard, cup holders, more restrooms (1 per 60 guests, versus 1 per 89 fans in the old stadium), and wider seats to accommodate the girth that has been added to the average New Yorker's gut (19-24-inch width, versus the old stadium's 18-22 inches).
But that's not all fans are getting. They're getting fewer seats, more luxury boxes (for fans, indeed), and higher prices on seats that allow fans to see the field without the aid of binoculars. The "legends" seating, whose price is not published in the club's official website, is rumored to contain seats costing $500 to $2500 per ticket.
Not everyone can buy these seats—doubtlessly, however, corporations have—but even seats in the terrace (mezzanine) section of the stadium pay $40-75 per ticket per game. The $12 bleachers and $20-25 grandstands, however, are still available for those with eagle vision or a thin wallet.
These ticket prices do not also include the cost of parking or subway/rail tickets, or the cost of food or beverage. It's not unreasonable (by Yankee Stadium standards) for two people to spend an additional $50-100 to travel to and eat at a game.
I like to believe that baseball is America's pastime because it is accessible to all Americans: urban, rural, rich, poor, and, incidentally, immigrants with a mean fastball. The final cost of attending a game at Yankee stadium, however, has become prohibitively expensive when it is "cheap" for a father to spend $100 to take his boy to a ballgame. It feels as though the notion of loving the sport of baseball has been tainted, and we must look to the game at its roots: a ball, a bat, and a mound of dirt.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
Recently I had a nightmare in which I suffered brain damage. It was not clear from the dream whether this brain damage resulted from or just resulted in watching an excess of daytime television. As I write this, I realize this blog may sound satirical, like an Onion headline: "Daytime TV Creates Zombie Out of Writing Professor." But it really and truly was a nightmare.
I remember specifically that, upon waking from whatever trauma had caused me to black out, I realized that I have yet to read King Lear. Upon attempting to read the text, I found that the language was foreign to me—instead, I was delighted by a made-for-TV version of Lear screened by a well-meaning family member.
I tremble just thinking about it. It forces me to wonder whether, if afflicted with brain damage, I would be better off knowing that I was only a shadow of my former self or being blissfully unaware of all the things I was missing.
I remember specifically that, upon waking from whatever trauma had caused me to black out, I realized that I have yet to read King Lear. Upon attempting to read the text, I found that the language was foreign to me—instead, I was delighted by a made-for-TV version of Lear screened by a well-meaning family member.
I tremble just thinking about it. It forces me to wonder whether, if afflicted with brain damage, I would be better off knowing that I was only a shadow of my former self or being blissfully unaware of all the things I was missing.
1.11.2009
Politics: It's What's for Dinner
Somehow the necessities of life—sustenance and procreation—have become a part of the political arena. I would imagine that the politics surrounding food stemmed originally from greed: I want the food that you have, and I'm more powerful than you are, so I'm going to take it. This is supported by the stretch of the British Empire: they waged war for spices, tea, and, well, opium.
So then it should come as no surprise that Twenty-First Century comestibles should be political as well. But the politics is somehow different: it's not the politics of aggression, but the politics of apology. As I graze through the aisles of my local natural foods market, I am surrounded by products that are created in such a way that offends no group, plant or animal. (My wallet pays the price for this luxury.) The shelves are lined with wheat-free, gluten-free, dairy-free, casein-free, soy-free, cruetly-free, organic, vegan styrofoam that has caused no harm to the earth or its inhabitants (except, perhaps, our taste buds).
I can't help but feel that our culture is overcompensating, much in the way most European countries have banned capital punishment after hundreds of years of sporting heads on pikes. Is it possible that man has quenched his urge to conquer and consume?
So then it should come as no surprise that Twenty-First Century comestibles should be political as well. But the politics is somehow different: it's not the politics of aggression, but the politics of apology. As I graze through the aisles of my local natural foods market, I am surrounded by products that are created in such a way that offends no group, plant or animal. (My wallet pays the price for this luxury.) The shelves are lined with wheat-free, gluten-free, dairy-free, casein-free, soy-free, cruetly-free, organic, vegan styrofoam that has caused no harm to the earth or its inhabitants (except, perhaps, our taste buds).
I can't help but feel that our culture is overcompensating, much in the way most European countries have banned capital punishment after hundreds of years of sporting heads on pikes. Is it possible that man has quenched his urge to conquer and consume?
1.06.2009
Derailed
My very first teacher dream was of utter unpreparedness. During the summer I showed up at the school that had just hired me wearing some attire reminiscent of lazy college afternoons. I had expected to set up my classroom, but instead entered a room brimmed with students. "Teach us," they said, "We're ready to learn." Learn? Learn what? I had no syllabus; I had no game plan.
This dream—or variations thereof—has been the most frequently recurring since I began teaching over three years ago. (Yes, I still have teacher dreams over the summer and on long breaks. My boss, who has been on this side of the desk for over three decades, confessed to me that he still suffers from teacher dreams as well.)
Today my teacher dream was realized. I was, of course, prepared and expecting to teach students today. In fact, I was overprepared. All of our course documents, calendars, and readings are posted on Blackboard; I had intended to make our course entirely paperless. Murphy, however, had other plans. Blackboard didn't work. I had no syllabus; my game plan was shot. I moved onto Plan B—I attempted to bring up the vital documents from my USB stick—but neither MS Word nor Adobe would run without crashing. I began to sweat as eleven physics and comp sci majors watched this twentysomething "professor" (or is she a TA?) struggle to operate a PC. I eventually moved onto Plan C: the students began their diagnostic essay—I read the assignment aloud—while I jumped from computer to computer until I found one willing to cooperate with my USB stick. And then I printed copies of the syllabus and collated and stapled them.
The rest of the session went fine, but I regret this unfavorable first impression my students now have of me. I keep flashing back to my fall students' comments on their evaluations: many stated that the course was well structured and the instructor well organized. But my new students don't know that! A bad day in the middle of the semester is just an off day; a bad day to begin the semester sets an expectation of incompetence. Blech.
Let's hope tomorrow goes better. (I have hard copies, just in case.)
This dream—or variations thereof—has been the most frequently recurring since I began teaching over three years ago. (Yes, I still have teacher dreams over the summer and on long breaks. My boss, who has been on this side of the desk for over three decades, confessed to me that he still suffers from teacher dreams as well.)
Today my teacher dream was realized. I was, of course, prepared and expecting to teach students today. In fact, I was overprepared. All of our course documents, calendars, and readings are posted on Blackboard; I had intended to make our course entirely paperless. Murphy, however, had other plans. Blackboard didn't work. I had no syllabus; my game plan was shot. I moved onto Plan B—I attempted to bring up the vital documents from my USB stick—but neither MS Word nor Adobe would run without crashing. I began to sweat as eleven physics and comp sci majors watched this twentysomething "professor" (or is she a TA?) struggle to operate a PC. I eventually moved onto Plan C: the students began their diagnostic essay—I read the assignment aloud—while I jumped from computer to computer until I found one willing to cooperate with my USB stick. And then I printed copies of the syllabus and collated and stapled them.
The rest of the session went fine, but I regret this unfavorable first impression my students now have of me. I keep flashing back to my fall students' comments on their evaluations: many stated that the course was well structured and the instructor well organized. But my new students don't know that! A bad day in the middle of the semester is just an off day; a bad day to begin the semester sets an expectation of incompetence. Blech.
Let's hope tomorrow goes better. (I have hard copies, just in case.)
Great Expectations
It has become a common occurrence for faculty and students alike to ask me if I'm doing graduate work. (While teaching five courses?) Just today a recent PhD recipient asked me if I was working toward my PhD. "Why would I get a PhD," I thought, "just to do what you do?" And, piggishly, "Especially if I already do it better?"
Is it so ghastly to be a twenty-something professor with no short-term aspirations of earning a PhD? Does it make me unambitious to not want to give up a job I love...only to return to it after a few years of returning to the pseudopoverty of academia?
My readers who are still entrenched in—or have recently escaped from—higher education, I ask you: am I really such an oddity?
Is it so ghastly to be a twenty-something professor with no short-term aspirations of earning a PhD? Does it make me unambitious to not want to give up a job I love...only to return to it after a few years of returning to the pseudopoverty of academia?
My readers who are still entrenched in—or have recently escaped from—higher education, I ask you: am I really such an oddity?
1.05.2009
Embracing Stereotypes
As a teacher I've spent a good deal of classroom time combating stereotypes. They can be mean, they can be hurtful, and sometimes they can even be true.
A true stereotype that makes me laugh—often—is about one of my former students who was a native Chinese speaker: the title of his proposal paper was "Illegal Downloads Nonono."
Really, where do I begin helping him rename that title?
A true stereotype that makes me laugh—often—is about one of my former students who was a native Chinese speaker: the title of his proposal paper was "Illegal Downloads Nonono."
Really, where do I begin helping him rename that title?
Cold Feet
Winter session begins tomorrow. The group of students I will teach this semester will be my fifth; still I have an overwhelming anxiety about the first day of school. Really, this is preposterous: thirteen years of public school, eight semesters of undergrad, and nine semesters of graduate school should compound with these five terms to make the first day a breeze. And still I get cold feet.
So I sent out an announcement to let my winter students know that our classroom has moved. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow!" I lied. Really, I don't look forward to it at all—not only do I love the freedom of sleeping until noon, but I harbor an irrational fear of the eleven unknown names on my roster.
That's what it is: the fear of the unknown. What if the roster is brimmed with eleven illiterates? Eleven degenerates? Eleven felons? (Still, I've taught worse.)
Then I checked my email and saw that I had a response from one of my winter students. "Hi! My name is Lu," she wrote. "Thank you for letting us know. I am glad to see you tomorrow, too."
And suddenly starting over doesn't seem so bad.
So I sent out an announcement to let my winter students know that our classroom has moved. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow!" I lied. Really, I don't look forward to it at all—not only do I love the freedom of sleeping until noon, but I harbor an irrational fear of the eleven unknown names on my roster.
That's what it is: the fear of the unknown. What if the roster is brimmed with eleven illiterates? Eleven degenerates? Eleven felons? (Still, I've taught worse.)
Then I checked my email and saw that I had a response from one of my winter students. "Hi! My name is Lu," she wrote. "Thank you for letting us know. I am glad to see you tomorrow, too."
And suddenly starting over doesn't seem so bad.
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