Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Or, as pseudonymous kid said this morning (summarizing the entire metablogging series):
"Naughty is a kind of being bad, for fun."
Monday, September 20, 2004
Metablogging, part 3
Ah, work and sex. Superego and id. I have, for whatever reason, an absolutely crippling sense of anxiety about my goddamn job. Here's some reassuring info for those of you who are graduate students: I got this job without a single publication. Not one. Nope. I've got a good essay coming out soon, and I've had another solicited by a good journal, and I've got conference papers coming out of my ass, but when it comes to turning conference presentations into publications, I just freak the fuck out.
I got this job--much to my surprise--after having spent a few years in therapy and way too long writing my dissertation (which was very good, actually) and having decided, in part through therapy, that actually I was really perfectly okay with the possibility of not getting a t-t job in my field. I decided I would give the job market maybe two chances, I would not apply for anything adjuncty that would require me to move, I would only apply for jobs that were places I was willing to live, and that if I got nothing, it was NOT ME it was THE MARKET and I would happily accept Plan B, which involved staying in a city I loved, near friends I'd grown close to, getting a job that paid actual money maybe, and having enjoyed my years teaching and doing research and thinking of the shift not as failure but as career change due to an imploding profession.
I really managed to be okay with this. Even, I think, to be looking forward to being able to retire gracefully from the field, having given it a good shot while refusing to compromise my fundamental values (which include not moving halfway across the country to work for pennies on a short-term contract). I was, in fact, sort of looking forward to being one of those people who draws their line in the sand and refuses to step across it and stands up and says, "this academic bullshit is bullshit, and I am not going to let it dictate my life. See ya."
But then the market came along. And I applied for every t-t job in my field, even ones that were places I didn't want to be, on the grounds that "well, it was worth a look and I have the material ready anyway." And maybe I got sucked a little bit back into the way one is "supposed" to think about this stuff rather than the way I wanted to think about it. Or maybe not. Maybe I was just giving it the ol' college try. Anyway, I got interviews. And I got campus visits. And I got an offer, to a place that was, on the one hand, undesireable (midwesty) but on the other hand the town seemed nice on my visit, it's near a big city, the job conditions seemed very good indeed. And it was the only offer I got. So I took it. And moved.
And found out that I don't want to live here.
I struggle with this fact almost every day. I feel extraordinarily guilty about caring about location when, really, pretty much everything about this job is either what I wanted or something I can live with. After all, I'm "lucky" to have a job. I'm extraordinarily "lucky" to have a good job, and superlatively "lucky" to have landed a good job in my first year out. I'm "lucky" that my husband was willing to relocate and that my kid was young enough to make relocation easy. Lucky, lucky, lucky. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Dr. B.
But I hate it here. And if it comes down to it, I would rather jettison my career than stay.
Of course, it may not come down to that. It probably won't. I'm in the system now, I've got the support I need to publish and get out, my diss was good and should definitely provide me with at least three good journal articles and the foundations for a solid monograph, I'm getting modest grant money from my university that will help me write, I have research assistants and clever graduate students to push me. On the surface, it all looks really, really good. I know what I need to do to get a different job (I don't actually want a "better" one; basically I want this job, someplace else). I have a plan in place, supportive friends and family, I'm starting to know people in my field (am thinking of starting a nymous blog to further this), there's been quite a bit of interest in what I do.
But I'm not producing very much. And I can't tell how much of that is me being unhappy, and therefore avoiding my job by fucking around; how much of it is me being, if I were honest with myself, totally uninterested in my job and having gotten so far only by virtue of being a "good girl" (this is my motherfucking superego talking); and how much of it is just flat-out anxiety. My rational brain tells me probably 80% anxiety, 15% mild depression, and at most 5% grass-is-greener syndrome. Because the truth is, I like my job. I'm a really good teacher. My research is interesting to me, and apparently to other people. I have several book-length ideas in mind that I would love to pursue. When I talk to people who are not academics (and who therefore don't terrify me) about my work, they are fascinated, and I really enjoy it.
So what is fucking around doing for me? It started off as a way of managing my anxiety. Anyone who has a problem with this can go fuck themselves: when I'm stressed out, getting laid a lot makes me feel better. Having other people find me attractive and desireable makes me feel better, goddamnit. Mr. B. tells me all sorts of flattering shit, but he's my husband: he has to say those things. (In fact, he keeps saying that one of the best things about me fucking around is that he can now compliment me and I don't immediately deflect it.) It's also, since two of my chatfuckbuddies are in fact now 3D fuckbuddies, giving me friends in the area, friends who are totally unconnected with my job, friends who I can be totally honest with. If nothing else, fucking creates quick intimacy; so does chat, where you tell complete strangers all sorts of things because really, it's just you and your computer screen and your imagination. I fell in love with Mr. B. through letters, long-distance. Writing is the path to my heart.
In fact, it's becoming clearer and clearer to me that it's no coincidence that I decided to out myself on my blog. I started the thing in order to talk about my work anxiety, and the question of trying to find a new job, and whether I am undermining my job search by not being little Ms. Publishing Machine, and whether I really want to even be a professor or whether, really, the whole anxiety thing is just more fucking trouble than it's worth and instead of working hard to "grow" past it, I should just fucking allow myself to avoid it and run the fuck away. Dude. I got my Ph.D. What more do I have to prove? (That's why the degree is so ostentatiously presented in my blog title, even though I also think it's fucking obnoxious to brag one one's degree-having. It's more a memo to myself than to anyone else.) But I started talking about my sex life because what is causing me problems in my work life is feeling dishonest, feeling inauthentic, and feeling insecure.
I have a Ph.D. And in real life, I am not a neurotic, anxious, insecure freak. I'm a fucking bitch in the best sense of the word (can I get a witness?). A major part of my real-world academic identity is that I am the "no bullshit" woman (this, according to my department chair) who is not afraid to say what I think. (Obviously, this also pertains in my blog.) One of my best skills as a teacher and colleague is that when students or friends are standing around worrying I will freely say shit like, "oh, I didn't read that either. No one does," or "yeah, the stuff we talked about in class last week was boring, but it needed to be covered to introduce this far more interesting subject; don't worry that you don't have a lot to say about it, because neither do I," or, "yes, that person is an ass, everyone knows it, don't let them make you feel stupid." I don't believe in unwritten rules, or at least I don't believe in not telling people what they are; I don't believe in meritocratic bullshit; I don't believe that making people paranoid is the way to get them to do good work; I don't believe that competition need be cruel. I'm an extrovert, I'm honest, and I don't like to lie. (Plus, I'm really bad at it. I live in fear of someone approaching me and asking, "are you Dr. Bitch?" and having my face totally give me away.)
So back to the fucking around. Part of it is pure old-fashioned ego-boosting. Like I said, those who begrudge me (or anyone) the need for that kind of thing can kiss my bitchy ass: we are all only human, and it feels good to be petted. Mr. B. gets this. Bonobo monkeys are his favorite animals. But a big, big part of my screwing around right now, I am starting to realize, is that in my personal life? In my marriage? Sexually? With my friends? I have no problem at all feeling entitled. None. And I have no problem with other people's entitlement, either. I don't know where or how I got that way, but I am not afraid to ask for what I want--not really, even if I sometimes hesitate a bit, figuring out how to do it nicely. I am thrilled half to death when other people lay their cards on the table and tell me what they want. (Which is part of what I hate about this place: passive-aggressive midwestern bullshit is going to make a real bitch of me yet.) I know that this open marriage shit works for me; I know that Mr. B. "gets" it; I know that my marriage is as solid as granite (how I know that, another time, I'm on a roll here). I have a hell of a lot of faith in my bullshit meter, and in my ability to assess other people, and in my ability to get what I want without fucking other people over. I know that, when it comes to marraige--and other personal relationships, too, including parenting--I am pretty good at discerning what's worthwhile, for me, from what's not worth fretting over. I think about it; I talk about it; I write about it. But when the chips are down, I trust myself.
But work-wise? I don't. At least, I think that I'm doing the right shit, that I'm making the right decisions for me. If I were a friend, I would tell me that, as someone who knows me well. But it doesn't feel certain. I question myself constantly. I second-guess my own motives. Am I self-sabotaging? Do I want to self-sabotage? I know I'm smart enough to do this job. God knows I see people in academe all the time who are way less smart than I am. I know that my work is good; people who I respect think so, I think so, I'm proud of it. I know that I'm capable of doing what it takes, that I'm not lazy: no one who finishes her Ph.D. with a baby can be accused of sloth or poor work habits. But I feel driven by this horrible sense, not that I am inadequate, but that I don't really know what I want. If I really did like this job the way I "should," I wouldn't fuck around online instead of preparing for my lectures. I wouldn't blog instead of writing my articles. I wouldn't read blogs instead of reading books in my field. I wouldn't run off for a gorgeous fall weekend in Big City instead of sitting at home working. I wouldn't spend money on clothes instead of books.
In short, I would have no leisure at all, I would never enjoy the flexibility and pleasure that are the best parts of this job. Because it sure as hell isn't the money. I know this is ridiculous. But it bugs the hell out of me anyway.
So I think that, in fucking, I am exercising those entitlement muscles. This is in fact Mr. B.'s idea: he pointed it out to me. I think I am reminding myself of what it feels like to feel attractive, confident, sure of myself. Yes, part of that means being sure of myself "as a woman," cornball, objectionable phrase, because a woman is what I am, damnit. My academic identity isn't separate from my body. Not brain-on-stick. I refuse to be asexual just because I'm a woman academic, even though I know that's expected of me. I'm a professor, I'm a mom, I'm a wife, I'm a woman, I'm a real person. AND I like sex. A lot. And I know, and the people who matter to me know, that there's not a goddamn thing wrong with that.
And I'm finding that my extracurricular activity is, in fact, working. I'm getting more interested in my research. I'm feeling more confident. A significant part of that is simply the having-of-friends, especially the having-of-so-very-NOT-work-friends. The meeting of people, of men, who get, as Mr. B. "gets," that being a mom, a wife, a professor, and a freak are not incompatible. It gives me hope. And I'm having an excuse to go into Big City on the weekend and hang out. An excuse to feel like a grownup smart person, who knows other grownup smart people in the real world, the world that isn't nearly as hostile to bitchy Ph.D.s as I fear it is.
And this is why my screwing around, in the end, has absolutely nothing to do with Mr. B., why I am solving problems that he cannot help me with. Because he is here, too, in midwestern tinytown. He is supporting me being Professor Bitch, god bless him, and I love him for that, and he knows this. But what I need is to teach myself that I am not "just" Professor Bitch. That my dissatisfaction with the status quo is something I can act on, not just rail about. That I can exercise my entitlement. That it's not merely theoretical.
And finally, possibly the most important part of the whole thing. The fucking is confirming my sense of entitlement in terms of place. My sense that physical pleasure--not just fucking, but also living someplace I love, that I find beautiful, that I feel comfortable in--is important. Is worthwhile. Is something I am, yes, entitled to do. So yes, the understanding, the knowing, the confirming of the body: location, location, location. That is my bete noire. That is the one problem. That is the thing I can't get past.
And it's entirely, totally, throughly, unavoidably physical.
I got this job--much to my surprise--after having spent a few years in therapy and way too long writing my dissertation (which was very good, actually) and having decided, in part through therapy, that actually I was really perfectly okay with the possibility of not getting a t-t job in my field. I decided I would give the job market maybe two chances, I would not apply for anything adjuncty that would require me to move, I would only apply for jobs that were places I was willing to live, and that if I got nothing, it was NOT ME it was THE MARKET and I would happily accept Plan B, which involved staying in a city I loved, near friends I'd grown close to, getting a job that paid actual money maybe, and having enjoyed my years teaching and doing research and thinking of the shift not as failure but as career change due to an imploding profession.
I really managed to be okay with this. Even, I think, to be looking forward to being able to retire gracefully from the field, having given it a good shot while refusing to compromise my fundamental values (which include not moving halfway across the country to work for pennies on a short-term contract). I was, in fact, sort of looking forward to being one of those people who draws their line in the sand and refuses to step across it and stands up and says, "this academic bullshit is bullshit, and I am not going to let it dictate my life. See ya."
But then the market came along. And I applied for every t-t job in my field, even ones that were places I didn't want to be, on the grounds that "well, it was worth a look and I have the material ready anyway." And maybe I got sucked a little bit back into the way one is "supposed" to think about this stuff rather than the way I wanted to think about it. Or maybe not. Maybe I was just giving it the ol' college try. Anyway, I got interviews. And I got campus visits. And I got an offer, to a place that was, on the one hand, undesireable (midwesty) but on the other hand the town seemed nice on my visit, it's near a big city, the job conditions seemed very good indeed. And it was the only offer I got. So I took it. And moved.
And found out that I don't want to live here.
I struggle with this fact almost every day. I feel extraordinarily guilty about caring about location when, really, pretty much everything about this job is either what I wanted or something I can live with. After all, I'm "lucky" to have a job. I'm extraordinarily "lucky" to have a good job, and superlatively "lucky" to have landed a good job in my first year out. I'm "lucky" that my husband was willing to relocate and that my kid was young enough to make relocation easy. Lucky, lucky, lucky. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Dr. B.
But I hate it here. And if it comes down to it, I would rather jettison my career than stay.
Of course, it may not come down to that. It probably won't. I'm in the system now, I've got the support I need to publish and get out, my diss was good and should definitely provide me with at least three good journal articles and the foundations for a solid monograph, I'm getting modest grant money from my university that will help me write, I have research assistants and clever graduate students to push me. On the surface, it all looks really, really good. I know what I need to do to get a different job (I don't actually want a "better" one; basically I want this job, someplace else). I have a plan in place, supportive friends and family, I'm starting to know people in my field (am thinking of starting a nymous blog to further this), there's been quite a bit of interest in what I do.
But I'm not producing very much. And I can't tell how much of that is me being unhappy, and therefore avoiding my job by fucking around; how much of it is me being, if I were honest with myself, totally uninterested in my job and having gotten so far only by virtue of being a "good girl" (this is my motherfucking superego talking); and how much of it is just flat-out anxiety. My rational brain tells me probably 80% anxiety, 15% mild depression, and at most 5% grass-is-greener syndrome. Because the truth is, I like my job. I'm a really good teacher. My research is interesting to me, and apparently to other people. I have several book-length ideas in mind that I would love to pursue. When I talk to people who are not academics (and who therefore don't terrify me) about my work, they are fascinated, and I really enjoy it.
So what is fucking around doing for me? It started off as a way of managing my anxiety. Anyone who has a problem with this can go fuck themselves: when I'm stressed out, getting laid a lot makes me feel better. Having other people find me attractive and desireable makes me feel better, goddamnit. Mr. B. tells me all sorts of flattering shit, but he's my husband: he has to say those things. (In fact, he keeps saying that one of the best things about me fucking around is that he can now compliment me and I don't immediately deflect it.) It's also, since two of my chatfuckbuddies are in fact now 3D fuckbuddies, giving me friends in the area, friends who are totally unconnected with my job, friends who I can be totally honest with. If nothing else, fucking creates quick intimacy; so does chat, where you tell complete strangers all sorts of things because really, it's just you and your computer screen and your imagination. I fell in love with Mr. B. through letters, long-distance. Writing is the path to my heart.
In fact, it's becoming clearer and clearer to me that it's no coincidence that I decided to out myself on my blog. I started the thing in order to talk about my work anxiety, and the question of trying to find a new job, and whether I am undermining my job search by not being little Ms. Publishing Machine, and whether I really want to even be a professor or whether, really, the whole anxiety thing is just more fucking trouble than it's worth and instead of working hard to "grow" past it, I should just fucking allow myself to avoid it and run the fuck away. Dude. I got my Ph.D. What more do I have to prove? (That's why the degree is so ostentatiously presented in my blog title, even though I also think it's fucking obnoxious to brag one one's degree-having. It's more a memo to myself than to anyone else.) But I started talking about my sex life because what is causing me problems in my work life is feeling dishonest, feeling inauthentic, and feeling insecure.
I have a Ph.D. And in real life, I am not a neurotic, anxious, insecure freak. I'm a fucking bitch in the best sense of the word (can I get a witness?). A major part of my real-world academic identity is that I am the "no bullshit" woman (this, according to my department chair) who is not afraid to say what I think. (Obviously, this also pertains in my blog.) One of my best skills as a teacher and colleague is that when students or friends are standing around worrying I will freely say shit like, "oh, I didn't read that either. No one does," or "yeah, the stuff we talked about in class last week was boring, but it needed to be covered to introduce this far more interesting subject; don't worry that you don't have a lot to say about it, because neither do I," or, "yes, that person is an ass, everyone knows it, don't let them make you feel stupid." I don't believe in unwritten rules, or at least I don't believe in not telling people what they are; I don't believe in meritocratic bullshit; I don't believe that making people paranoid is the way to get them to do good work; I don't believe that competition need be cruel. I'm an extrovert, I'm honest, and I don't like to lie. (Plus, I'm really bad at it. I live in fear of someone approaching me and asking, "are you Dr. Bitch?" and having my face totally give me away.)
So back to the fucking around. Part of it is pure old-fashioned ego-boosting. Like I said, those who begrudge me (or anyone) the need for that kind of thing can kiss my bitchy ass: we are all only human, and it feels good to be petted. Mr. B. gets this. Bonobo monkeys are his favorite animals. But a big, big part of my screwing around right now, I am starting to realize, is that in my personal life? In my marriage? Sexually? With my friends? I have no problem at all feeling entitled. None. And I have no problem with other people's entitlement, either. I don't know where or how I got that way, but I am not afraid to ask for what I want--not really, even if I sometimes hesitate a bit, figuring out how to do it nicely. I am thrilled half to death when other people lay their cards on the table and tell me what they want. (Which is part of what I hate about this place: passive-aggressive midwestern bullshit is going to make a real bitch of me yet.) I know that this open marriage shit works for me; I know that Mr. B. "gets" it; I know that my marriage is as solid as granite (how I know that, another time, I'm on a roll here). I have a hell of a lot of faith in my bullshit meter, and in my ability to assess other people, and in my ability to get what I want without fucking other people over. I know that, when it comes to marraige--and other personal relationships, too, including parenting--I am pretty good at discerning what's worthwhile, for me, from what's not worth fretting over. I think about it; I talk about it; I write about it. But when the chips are down, I trust myself.
But work-wise? I don't. At least, I think that I'm doing the right shit, that I'm making the right decisions for me. If I were a friend, I would tell me that, as someone who knows me well. But it doesn't feel certain. I question myself constantly. I second-guess my own motives. Am I self-sabotaging? Do I want to self-sabotage? I know I'm smart enough to do this job. God knows I see people in academe all the time who are way less smart than I am. I know that my work is good; people who I respect think so, I think so, I'm proud of it. I know that I'm capable of doing what it takes, that I'm not lazy: no one who finishes her Ph.D. with a baby can be accused of sloth or poor work habits. But I feel driven by this horrible sense, not that I am inadequate, but that I don't really know what I want. If I really did like this job the way I "should," I wouldn't fuck around online instead of preparing for my lectures. I wouldn't blog instead of writing my articles. I wouldn't read blogs instead of reading books in my field. I wouldn't run off for a gorgeous fall weekend in Big City instead of sitting at home working. I wouldn't spend money on clothes instead of books.
In short, I would have no leisure at all, I would never enjoy the flexibility and pleasure that are the best parts of this job. Because it sure as hell isn't the money. I know this is ridiculous. But it bugs the hell out of me anyway.
So I think that, in fucking, I am exercising those entitlement muscles. This is in fact Mr. B.'s idea: he pointed it out to me. I think I am reminding myself of what it feels like to feel attractive, confident, sure of myself. Yes, part of that means being sure of myself "as a woman," cornball, objectionable phrase, because a woman is what I am, damnit. My academic identity isn't separate from my body. Not brain-on-stick. I refuse to be asexual just because I'm a woman academic, even though I know that's expected of me. I'm a professor, I'm a mom, I'm a wife, I'm a woman, I'm a real person. AND I like sex. A lot. And I know, and the people who matter to me know, that there's not a goddamn thing wrong with that.
And I'm finding that my extracurricular activity is, in fact, working. I'm getting more interested in my research. I'm feeling more confident. A significant part of that is simply the having-of-friends, especially the having-of-so-very-NOT-work-friends. The meeting of people, of men, who get, as Mr. B. "gets," that being a mom, a wife, a professor, and a freak are not incompatible. It gives me hope. And I'm having an excuse to go into Big City on the weekend and hang out. An excuse to feel like a grownup smart person, who knows other grownup smart people in the real world, the world that isn't nearly as hostile to bitchy Ph.D.s as I fear it is.
And this is why my screwing around, in the end, has absolutely nothing to do with Mr. B., why I am solving problems that he cannot help me with. Because he is here, too, in midwestern tinytown. He is supporting me being Professor Bitch, god bless him, and I love him for that, and he knows this. But what I need is to teach myself that I am not "just" Professor Bitch. That my dissatisfaction with the status quo is something I can act on, not just rail about. That I can exercise my entitlement. That it's not merely theoretical.
And finally, possibly the most important part of the whole thing. The fucking is confirming my sense of entitlement in terms of place. My sense that physical pleasure--not just fucking, but also living someplace I love, that I find beautiful, that I feel comfortable in--is important. Is worthwhile. Is something I am, yes, entitled to do. So yes, the understanding, the knowing, the confirming of the body: location, location, location. That is my bete noire. That is the one problem. That is the thing I can't get past.
And it's entirely, totally, throughly, unavoidably physical.
Friday, September 17, 2004
A quickie
Laptop backed up; currently working. Going into shop tomorrow (sigh, I can't afford more debt). Luckily, Mr. B. has a laptop too (mine is also my work machine), so I will borrow his for work this week and maybe do a little blogging too. Though I really will have to let him have when I am at home, since I'll be taking it away from him all day. He might otherwise go into withdrawal.
I had a kind of revelation today, from this blog. A lot of my readers say, "I get the idea of open marriage intellectually, but I could never do it myself." And a lot of other readers say, "but shouldn't you try to work out your problems with Mr. B., not with other people?" And I suddenly realized, these are the same question. Yes, I (anyone) should try to work out my problems with my husband. And, in fact, I do. But getting what my (our) problems are intellectually doesn't mean that we can, actually, stop having them. Just like intellectually being "ok" with open marriage doesn't mean that you could actually do it yourself.
For some reason, I find that I can, sometimes, not have those same problems with other people. This is, I assume, because other people have slightly different personality configurations; they don't, maybe, push my buttons in quite the same way, or because they are new I am more polite, or because they aren't my life partner of 15 years (20, if you count the time we dated before marrying), I'm just less in a rut with them. So, say Dateboy does something that Mr. B. does, and it drives me crazy when Mr. B. does it, and I almost always yell at him. And I've tried, really hard, not to yell at him about it but it really just drives me so fucking crazy and I know he's doing it on purpose and why do you always do that? Really? Those of you who have been in relationships (i.e., everyone) knows what I mean.
But Dateboy does it. And because he's not my partner, I find that I don't particularly care, so I don't say anything. Or I do mind, but because he's just my fuckbuddy, I don't think I have the right to yell at him, so I don't. Maybe I sort of mildly object, or maybe I just let it go. And then I realize--I feel, as distinct from intellectually knowing--that actually, this really wasn't that big a fucking deal. It didn't ruin the evening or anything. And I sort of have this little epiphany and I realize that even when Mr. B. does it, it's not that big a deal. And now I know how it feels to let it go, and move on. So next time he does it, I recall the feeling I had with Dateboy, the not-caring-so-much, and I don't yell. And Mr. B. notices (or maybe he doesn't, but let's say he does), and he sort of stops what he's doing. He has time enough, you see, to realize what he's doing because I haven't immediately yelled at him and put him on the defensive. So he realizes, and he goes, "oh, I'm doing that thing you hate. I'll stop now," and I go "omg! That's all it took? Me not yelling?" and we both feel much better. Or maybe he doesn't notice, and he does it, and I sort of roll my eyes and that's it. And then I feel, afterwards, like "wow, that was kind of irksome, but you know, not yelling actually makes me feel less stressed over it than yelling and starting a fight."
I don't know if that makes sense. I'm just saying, knowing something with your brain and knowing it in your gut are not the same. Sometimes it's hard to learn things with your gut with some people, for some reason that one usually can't figure out. So sometimes you can learn them with your gut with someone else. And once learned, they're yours to keep.
I promise to try to blog about the work/cheating connection some more--hopefully soon, on Mr. B.'s laptop. It'll all be anecdotal and personal, so very fun in a voyueristic, "omg this person is so fucked up, I can't believe she has a job" kind of way. I'm sure you'll all enjoy it. And, in fact, it is also true that my job hangups are something I am very definitely learning about from some of my boyfrirends, who have job hangups very like mine (which Mr. B. doesn't), or from other boyfriends, who are totally free from those kind of hangups. So there again, in figuring out this shit with them, I'm hopefully, in the end, going to make Mr. B.'s life easier in the long run.
Stay tuned.
I had a kind of revelation today, from this blog. A lot of my readers say, "I get the idea of open marriage intellectually, but I could never do it myself." And a lot of other readers say, "but shouldn't you try to work out your problems with Mr. B., not with other people?" And I suddenly realized, these are the same question. Yes, I (anyone) should try to work out my problems with my husband. And, in fact, I do. But getting what my (our) problems are intellectually doesn't mean that we can, actually, stop having them. Just like intellectually being "ok" with open marriage doesn't mean that you could actually do it yourself.
For some reason, I find that I can, sometimes, not have those same problems with other people. This is, I assume, because other people have slightly different personality configurations; they don't, maybe, push my buttons in quite the same way, or because they are new I am more polite, or because they aren't my life partner of 15 years (20, if you count the time we dated before marrying), I'm just less in a rut with them. So, say Dateboy does something that Mr. B. does, and it drives me crazy when Mr. B. does it, and I almost always yell at him. And I've tried, really hard, not to yell at him about it but it really just drives me so fucking crazy and I know he's doing it on purpose and why do you always do that? Really? Those of you who have been in relationships (i.e., everyone) knows what I mean.
But Dateboy does it. And because he's not my partner, I find that I don't particularly care, so I don't say anything. Or I do mind, but because he's just my fuckbuddy, I don't think I have the right to yell at him, so I don't. Maybe I sort of mildly object, or maybe I just let it go. And then I realize--I feel, as distinct from intellectually knowing--that actually, this really wasn't that big a fucking deal. It didn't ruin the evening or anything. And I sort of have this little epiphany and I realize that even when Mr. B. does it, it's not that big a deal. And now I know how it feels to let it go, and move on. So next time he does it, I recall the feeling I had with Dateboy, the not-caring-so-much, and I don't yell. And Mr. B. notices (or maybe he doesn't, but let's say he does), and he sort of stops what he's doing. He has time enough, you see, to realize what he's doing because I haven't immediately yelled at him and put him on the defensive. So he realizes, and he goes, "oh, I'm doing that thing you hate. I'll stop now," and I go "omg! That's all it took? Me not yelling?" and we both feel much better. Or maybe he doesn't notice, and he does it, and I sort of roll my eyes and that's it. And then I feel, afterwards, like "wow, that was kind of irksome, but you know, not yelling actually makes me feel less stressed over it than yelling and starting a fight."
I don't know if that makes sense. I'm just saying, knowing something with your brain and knowing it in your gut are not the same. Sometimes it's hard to learn things with your gut with some people, for some reason that one usually can't figure out. So sometimes you can learn them with your gut with someone else. And once learned, they're yours to keep.
I promise to try to blog about the work/cheating connection some more--hopefully soon, on Mr. B.'s laptop. It'll all be anecdotal and personal, so very fun in a voyueristic, "omg this person is so fucked up, I can't believe she has a job" kind of way. I'm sure you'll all enjoy it. And, in fact, it is also true that my job hangups are something I am very definitely learning about from some of my boyfrirends, who have job hangups very like mine (which Mr. B. doesn't), or from other boyfriends, who are totally free from those kind of hangups. So there again, in figuring out this shit with them, I'm hopefully, in the end, going to make Mr. B.'s life easier in the long run.
Stay tuned.
Uh oh
Laptop appears to be dying. Blogging postponed until further notice.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Latest sitemeter find
Sorry, no blogging today--busy and out of it--but I found a new and beautiful blog via my sitemeter stats: Jan's Nobel Project.
A lot of Milosz--a favorite of mine--in the recent entries. And some very pretty pictures.
A lot of Milosz--a favorite of mine--in the recent entries. And some very pretty pictures.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
For Profgrrrl and Dr. Crazy
Metablogging, part 2
(This is the stuff about sex, and how being a freak and talking about being a freak (I remember in college someone asked me if a girlfriend of mine was a freak and I had no idea what he meant)--how talking about my sex life on my blog is, I hope, not merely titillating (not that there's anything wrong with that), but also has a point to it. How it is that I see my sex life and my intellectual life as being, actually, two manifestations of the same impulse: to think, and to pursue a line of thought. Enjoy. Part 3 tomorrow.)
By way of explanation about what I know is a major topic of interest to a lot of my readers: my open marriage, when you boil it down, is based on my examining one simple question. Does commitment to a partnership mean commitment to sexual fidelty? And the converse: does commitment to sexual fidelity mean commitment to a partnership? The answer to the second, obviously, is no. One can remain faithful, sexually speaking, and still treat one's partner like shit. The answer to the first, for me, is also no. But don't assume that because I screw around, or that because I tolerate--and am willing to think carefully about--the meanings and significances of screwing around and lying, that that means I don't take commitment seriously. I think that people can fuck around, and lie, and still be very committed to their partners, still be "honorable." Because I have seen it happen.
Here is what I think. I think sex is, among other things, a form of communication. I presume that anyone who has ever had good, loving sex, knows this. I think that we learn things not only in the generally accepted brain-on-a-stick way, but also through our bodies and our emotions. I know I do. The problem I have with the presumption--as distinct from the conscious, informed choice--of sexual fidelity is that I think it closes off one way of learning. Now, this may be fine. It may be a valid trade off. No one can read every book, no one can study every subject, and no one can learn everything. But I think it is very important, absolutely vital, not to assume on someone else's behalf that they should forego reading books. I'm not talking here about people who want to scold me for my sex life. What I am saying--and it is polemical--is that I think that assuming that your partner must remain sexually monogamous to you, assuming that without talking about it, is not a loving thing to do. It is selfish. I reject it. Because, not in defiance of, the idea that partnership and marriage are meaningful acts. This does not mean that I look at people who are monogamous and think they are wrong, or that I am not (do not try to be) understanding of those who find examining these things threatening. It does mean that I think that what we should strive for when we love is acceptance, openness, trust, and understanding. This is why my partner and I agreed, when we married, that infidelity is not grounds for divorce.
Now, why do I talk both about open marriages, which are consensual, and cheating, which is not (at least, not on the part of the cheated-on partner)? For a few reasons.
1. First, even open marriages are a form of cheating (channelling Laura Kipnis here): they challenge, "cheat" on, the standard assumptions about what marriage means.
2. Second, because I don't accept it as a given that the cheated-on partner always fails to consent, even if that consent is not verbal. This gets into dodgy territory: a lot of feminists want to insist that "no" always means no, and only "yes" means yes. But in our own lives, we know this is not true--which is not to say that "no" never means no, or that it isn't, generally speaking, a good idea to act as if it is. Still, we all know that sometimes we agree to things that we really don't want to agree to, and that sometimes we object to things that we really don't care about. That sometimes in relationships people are passive-aggressive, or that they withhold intimacy (sexual or otherwise) while insisting that they love their partners. People attempt to manipulate, because sometimes saying what we really think is terrifying. One advantage, I think, to examining received truths--by talking about open marriage, among other things--is to hopefully start to make it a little more okay for people to think about this stuff, to say "no" when they mean it, and "yes" when they mean it, without saying (or not saying) things just because they think those things can't be said.
3. Presumably people cheat for a reason. Certainly, I think, people who cheat openly (open marriage types), do so for a reason. As I said once before, a friend asked me: "what do you get from partner X that you don't get from Mr. B.?" This is a good question. What, then, are the reasons people cheat? Selfishness? Sure, sometimes. Everyone is selfish. Misogyny? Sure, sometimes. And this, I reject. Loneliness? Yes, sometimes. This is human, this is important, this it would be cruel to dismiss out of hand. A longing to learn something from someone new? I think, often. Sometimes, I think it is something that one could, theoretically, learn from one's partner--but the nature of long-term partnerships, I think, is that often one settles into assuming a lot, and if one is committed, it is risky to break the pattern. So, for example, Homeboy is very emotional, very comfortable with his feelings, even (his word) a bit melodramatic at times. I am not. Emotional outpourings scare me. Mr. B., too, is often very emotional, and over the years he has learned to hold it in, so as not to scare me; and while I am learning to be more accepting of it, I still fall into the trap of being very snappish or cold when it comes up unexpectedly. Since Homeboy is new, he and I haven't yet developed a pattern for how we act around this issue, which means that once or twice he's had an emotional outpouring, and I have gotten scared, but I have found it easier to hang in with it than I do when it is Mr. B., where I have a lot more to lose (and, admittedly, some bad habits). And lo and behold. Homeboy had his outburst, and came through it, and there I was on the other side, and it was still okay. (And, on the flip side, Homeboy is terrified of driving people away with this thing, and the fact that despite getting nervous, I didn't run off, was reassuring to him too.) The experience is, I think, allowing me to learn a little bit, to grow a little bit. I suspect that it will help me be less panicked with Mr. B.'s emotions, and I suspect that it will help Homeboy to be less terrified when other people get uncomfortable around him. Hence, we are both learning something.
Now, what if Homeboy were married? (He isn't, but for the sake of argument.) What if his emotional outpourings were a problem in his marriage? Would it be "bad" for him to learn to deal with them by having an "affair" with me, or someone like me? What if the issue of his emotional outpourings had gotten so touchy in his marriage that he and his wife were frozen, were not intimate (whether or not they were still having sex), could not learn how to break out of this on their own? Maybe therapy would be a better route--less risky, certainly--than cheating; but that doesn't mean that cheating isn't, in a way, a valid way of learning stuff if he does it "honorably." If, that is, he enters into it thoughtfully, with due consideration for the person he is cheating with and for the person he is cheating on, and for himself. Yes, he might risk hurting his wife; he might risk losing her. Then again, he might risk hurting her or losing her simply by trying to change the pattern in their marriage. Is it therefore a given that, in order to save this theoretical marriage, he should not try to grow as a person? Maybe your answer is yes. My answer is no. Homeboy would, of course, have to come up with his own answer: he has that right, the right to think for himself. Thinking through it is, one hopes, part of what one does when one decides to cheat.
4. On the other hand, I think that straight-up dishonest lying unthoughtful cheating can be honorable too. Let's say your marriage is unhappy. Let's say that, for whatever reason, you're not willing to divorce. Going out and finding someone who meets some of your emotional and physical needs can act as a pressure valve, I think, so that--again, if you are honorable, by which I mean you are reasonably careful--the marriage can sort of stumble on forward in its unsatisfying way without you getting so unhappy that you feel like the only options are change, or divorce. Sure, this isn't ideal. So few things are ideal. Let us say that the cheating person, in this hypothetical scenario, is a woman, and that her husband is kind of an unthoughtful jerk. But he is faithful. Doesn't she "owe" it to him to stay faithful? Maybe. But doesn't he "owe" it to her not to be an unthoughtful jerk? If he breaks his obligation, why should she honor hers? I'm not advocating tit for tat, or cheating out of spite. I'm just saying, sometimes marriages reach dead ends. People might then divorce. Or, you know, they might not, for a number of reasons. If the latter, then I for one think it's really a bit cruel to expect that someone, anyone, should give up sex and/or affection for the rest of their life.
Fucking, I think, is the body's way of figuring shit out. Like having the time to read and write, it's a form of leisure, of pleasure (and, sometimes, of obligation and avoidance). I think that asserting people's rights to the autonomy of their own bodies--whether or not they're married--is like aserting their rights to the autonomy of their own minds. You can choose not to screw around, just like you can choose not to become, say, a biologist--though you find biology interesting--because you want to dedicate your mind (your body) to your chosen line of work. Cool. But if I choose to read an occasional book on evolution on the side, it doesn't really make me a bad whatever-I-am. It might even help me come up with new ideas in my own field. Or, you know, it might just be a way of procrastinating. Or it might show that I secretly (or not so secretly) find my field boring.
But as one of my sex-chat friends (the Connoisseur, actually) said to me: "It's your intellect. You can do what you like with it."
By way of explanation about what I know is a major topic of interest to a lot of my readers: my open marriage, when you boil it down, is based on my examining one simple question. Does commitment to a partnership mean commitment to sexual fidelty? And the converse: does commitment to sexual fidelity mean commitment to a partnership? The answer to the second, obviously, is no. One can remain faithful, sexually speaking, and still treat one's partner like shit. The answer to the first, for me, is also no. But don't assume that because I screw around, or that because I tolerate--and am willing to think carefully about--the meanings and significances of screwing around and lying, that that means I don't take commitment seriously. I think that people can fuck around, and lie, and still be very committed to their partners, still be "honorable." Because I have seen it happen.
Here is what I think. I think sex is, among other things, a form of communication. I presume that anyone who has ever had good, loving sex, knows this. I think that we learn things not only in the generally accepted brain-on-a-stick way, but also through our bodies and our emotions. I know I do. The problem I have with the presumption--as distinct from the conscious, informed choice--of sexual fidelity is that I think it closes off one way of learning. Now, this may be fine. It may be a valid trade off. No one can read every book, no one can study every subject, and no one can learn everything. But I think it is very important, absolutely vital, not to assume on someone else's behalf that they should forego reading books. I'm not talking here about people who want to scold me for my sex life. What I am saying--and it is polemical--is that I think that assuming that your partner must remain sexually monogamous to you, assuming that without talking about it, is not a loving thing to do. It is selfish. I reject it. Because, not in defiance of, the idea that partnership and marriage are meaningful acts. This does not mean that I look at people who are monogamous and think they are wrong, or that I am not (do not try to be) understanding of those who find examining these things threatening. It does mean that I think that what we should strive for when we love is acceptance, openness, trust, and understanding. This is why my partner and I agreed, when we married, that infidelity is not grounds for divorce.
Now, why do I talk both about open marriages, which are consensual, and cheating, which is not (at least, not on the part of the cheated-on partner)? For a few reasons.
1. First, even open marriages are a form of cheating (channelling Laura Kipnis here): they challenge, "cheat" on, the standard assumptions about what marriage means.
2. Second, because I don't accept it as a given that the cheated-on partner always fails to consent, even if that consent is not verbal. This gets into dodgy territory: a lot of feminists want to insist that "no" always means no, and only "yes" means yes. But in our own lives, we know this is not true--which is not to say that "no" never means no, or that it isn't, generally speaking, a good idea to act as if it is. Still, we all know that sometimes we agree to things that we really don't want to agree to, and that sometimes we object to things that we really don't care about. That sometimes in relationships people are passive-aggressive, or that they withhold intimacy (sexual or otherwise) while insisting that they love their partners. People attempt to manipulate, because sometimes saying what we really think is terrifying. One advantage, I think, to examining received truths--by talking about open marriage, among other things--is to hopefully start to make it a little more okay for people to think about this stuff, to say "no" when they mean it, and "yes" when they mean it, without saying (or not saying) things just because they think those things can't be said.
3. Presumably people cheat for a reason. Certainly, I think, people who cheat openly (open marriage types), do so for a reason. As I said once before, a friend asked me: "what do you get from partner X that you don't get from Mr. B.?" This is a good question. What, then, are the reasons people cheat? Selfishness? Sure, sometimes. Everyone is selfish. Misogyny? Sure, sometimes. And this, I reject. Loneliness? Yes, sometimes. This is human, this is important, this it would be cruel to dismiss out of hand. A longing to learn something from someone new? I think, often. Sometimes, I think it is something that one could, theoretically, learn from one's partner--but the nature of long-term partnerships, I think, is that often one settles into assuming a lot, and if one is committed, it is risky to break the pattern. So, for example, Homeboy is very emotional, very comfortable with his feelings, even (his word) a bit melodramatic at times. I am not. Emotional outpourings scare me. Mr. B., too, is often very emotional, and over the years he has learned to hold it in, so as not to scare me; and while I am learning to be more accepting of it, I still fall into the trap of being very snappish or cold when it comes up unexpectedly. Since Homeboy is new, he and I haven't yet developed a pattern for how we act around this issue, which means that once or twice he's had an emotional outpouring, and I have gotten scared, but I have found it easier to hang in with it than I do when it is Mr. B., where I have a lot more to lose (and, admittedly, some bad habits). And lo and behold. Homeboy had his outburst, and came through it, and there I was on the other side, and it was still okay. (And, on the flip side, Homeboy is terrified of driving people away with this thing, and the fact that despite getting nervous, I didn't run off, was reassuring to him too.) The experience is, I think, allowing me to learn a little bit, to grow a little bit. I suspect that it will help me be less panicked with Mr. B.'s emotions, and I suspect that it will help Homeboy to be less terrified when other people get uncomfortable around him. Hence, we are both learning something.
Now, what if Homeboy were married? (He isn't, but for the sake of argument.) What if his emotional outpourings were a problem in his marriage? Would it be "bad" for him to learn to deal with them by having an "affair" with me, or someone like me? What if the issue of his emotional outpourings had gotten so touchy in his marriage that he and his wife were frozen, were not intimate (whether or not they were still having sex), could not learn how to break out of this on their own? Maybe therapy would be a better route--less risky, certainly--than cheating; but that doesn't mean that cheating isn't, in a way, a valid way of learning stuff if he does it "honorably." If, that is, he enters into it thoughtfully, with due consideration for the person he is cheating with and for the person he is cheating on, and for himself. Yes, he might risk hurting his wife; he might risk losing her. Then again, he might risk hurting her or losing her simply by trying to change the pattern in their marriage. Is it therefore a given that, in order to save this theoretical marriage, he should not try to grow as a person? Maybe your answer is yes. My answer is no. Homeboy would, of course, have to come up with his own answer: he has that right, the right to think for himself. Thinking through it is, one hopes, part of what one does when one decides to cheat.
4. On the other hand, I think that straight-up dishonest lying unthoughtful cheating can be honorable too. Let's say your marriage is unhappy. Let's say that, for whatever reason, you're not willing to divorce. Going out and finding someone who meets some of your emotional and physical needs can act as a pressure valve, I think, so that--again, if you are honorable, by which I mean you are reasonably careful--the marriage can sort of stumble on forward in its unsatisfying way without you getting so unhappy that you feel like the only options are change, or divorce. Sure, this isn't ideal. So few things are ideal. Let us say that the cheating person, in this hypothetical scenario, is a woman, and that her husband is kind of an unthoughtful jerk. But he is faithful. Doesn't she "owe" it to him to stay faithful? Maybe. But doesn't he "owe" it to her not to be an unthoughtful jerk? If he breaks his obligation, why should she honor hers? I'm not advocating tit for tat, or cheating out of spite. I'm just saying, sometimes marriages reach dead ends. People might then divorce. Or, you know, they might not, for a number of reasons. If the latter, then I for one think it's really a bit cruel to expect that someone, anyone, should give up sex and/or affection for the rest of their life.
Fucking, I think, is the body's way of figuring shit out. Like having the time to read and write, it's a form of leisure, of pleasure (and, sometimes, of obligation and avoidance). I think that asserting people's rights to the autonomy of their own bodies--whether or not they're married--is like aserting their rights to the autonomy of their own minds. You can choose not to screw around, just like you can choose not to become, say, a biologist--though you find biology interesting--because you want to dedicate your mind (your body) to your chosen line of work. Cool. But if I choose to read an occasional book on evolution on the side, it doesn't really make me a bad whatever-I-am. It might even help me come up with new ideas in my own field. Or, you know, it might just be a way of procrastinating. Or it might show that I secretly (or not so secretly) find my field boring.
But as one of my sex-chat friends (the Connoisseur, actually) said to me: "It's your intellect. You can do what you like with it."
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Metablogging, part 1
In wandering around my sitemeter stats, I keep finding interesting things. Mostly, of course, responses to my sex life. I shan't link here because I want to just talk, without the interruption of tracking down sources.
I have been thinking, for myself, about what is the connection between the academic posts, the mom posts, and the sex posts. And about why blog, anyway? Here is my attempt to think it through, informed by links and comments I've seen lying around, though mostly, in the end, the product of my own brain.
As an academic, as a feminist, as a smart woman, as a mother, as a teacher: I think one of my most fundamental responsibilities--it is also a joy, and a habit, and a way of being--is to be wary of received truths simply because they are received truths. This is the connection between my sex life and my academic life. (More on this subject in a follow-up post.)
As a woman, as a writer, as an academic, as a feminist, as a mother, and as a teacher: I grow tired of the way that women, when they write--especially, perhaps, but not exclusively, on politics--are constantly interrogated about fundamental premises; are constantly held up from following a line of thought by silly, disruptive questions about basic starting points, questions that turn into arguments. Sometimes, perhaps often, these questions are sincerely meant, similar to the way that questions from college freshmen often slow things up terribly but are, after all things they need answered. When one teaches, one has to consider this, and one has to spell out the premises again, and again, and again, and be willing to clarify and explain. At the same time, though, one has to reach a point where one says, "it is time, now, to move on. If you still need help with this, do some more reading on your own." When one is not teaching entry-level courses, when one is trying to think something through at a fairly high level of analysis, having to reiterate basic premises is not only irritating (which is why women so often get "shrill" or "angry" when they're interrupted YET AGAIN, and why it is so fucking wrong for men to say patronizing things like, "don't be insulting, or you'll never get anyone over to your side"). One presumes--one should presume, one is entitled to presume--that one's auditors are willing to meet one halfway. That they, say, have a basic understanding of feminism, or if not, that they not automatically dismiss it out of hand; that they accord one the respect one is entitled to as a thinker. And indeed, all human beings are thinkers, so I am not saying that only those with Ph.D.s are entitled to this kind of willing, open-minded ear. On the other hand, I do think that those with Ph.D.s (and all smart people) have, by virtue of their degrees/jobs/brains, a special responsibility to be open-minded listeners. To not accept received truths for no good reason.
These are two separate things, the question of whether one always has to articulate one's premises (no), and the question of whether or not one accepts received truths (no). People often confuse them, in good faith or bad, and accuse people of accepting received truths ("obviously she has been brainwashed by feminism") when, in fact, what is happening is that the speaker is simply not bothering to spell out really basic shit because she assumes that most intelligent and thoughtful readers either already know it, or are willing, for the sake of following a line of thought, to accept it conditionally and see where it leads.
Hence, polemic (and, occasionally, humor). I think a lot of the women writers who I enjoy are very "glib," to use a word that's been tossed at me more than a few times. Yes, we are glib. But glibness doesn't automatically mean that we are not thinking, or thoughtful, or that our arguments are without merit. Instead, glibness often represents a challenge, informed by feminism, to the reader: damnit, I am not going to be your mommy here. I am not going to hold your hand. I am going to say what I think and you better scramble to keep up and do your fucking homework, and if you don't then don't come whining to me. Because if I take the time not to be glib, if I take the time to spell things out patiently, and slowly, as I do for pseudonymous kid (most of the time), or as I do for my students (most of the time), then I will never get on to what I am really trying to say. And also because I am entitled to have a sense of humor. I am entitled to speak to an audience who I know accepts my fundamental premises. The rest of you are very, very welcome here: I am, after all, a teacher, and this is, after all, a form of publication, and I know and welcome the results of that. But here I am constructing in my own mind an audience that is, more or less, on the same page I am. I'm willing--as are we all--to occasionally pause and reexamine the opening chapters, to go back over beginning stuff; this is how we learn, after all, and our understanding of things changes over time (which is another element of blogging, by the way). But when I am in the middle of thinking stuff out, it is really frustrating, and disruptive (and, one suspects, sometimes deliberately so), to be interrupted all the time and asked, "sorry, I came late to class. Did I miss anything important?" And it seems to me that this kind of thing happens a lot more to women bloggers than it does to men. And I think that people should think about this.
On blogging as form: it is, obviously, a temporal and informal medium. I take these things as fundamental premises. Therefore, my writing here is often informal (and almost never spell-checked or proofread), and I assume that if I say something silly or stupid or simply not well-thought-out, that I can return to it at a later date, and/or that those who, like me, recognize that this is a periodical and drafty form of writing, might ask questions about it, or think to themselves, "well, that's not one of the better entries," but that over time, a line of reasoning, a sense of thoughtful purpose, comes out. Now, this is also a bit of a problem, formally speaking, because one of the other aspects of web writing is that people dip in and out; they follow links, never to return, they bookmark things but read them irregularly, or skim. I do it. Still, as a writer, at this point, I don't feel I can do a whole lot about that. Hopefully even intermittent reading reveals some things; I don't really expect anyone (except me) to parse my words as if they were holy writ. But I do hope and expect that readers come with an open (enough) mind: not only to what I write, but to all writing, all human attempts to communicate.
And that, I think, is what I am doing here. Saying that.
I have been thinking, for myself, about what is the connection between the academic posts, the mom posts, and the sex posts. And about why blog, anyway? Here is my attempt to think it through, informed by links and comments I've seen lying around, though mostly, in the end, the product of my own brain.
As an academic, as a feminist, as a smart woman, as a mother, as a teacher: I think one of my most fundamental responsibilities--it is also a joy, and a habit, and a way of being--is to be wary of received truths simply because they are received truths. This is the connection between my sex life and my academic life. (More on this subject in a follow-up post.)
As a woman, as a writer, as an academic, as a feminist, as a mother, and as a teacher: I grow tired of the way that women, when they write--especially, perhaps, but not exclusively, on politics--are constantly interrogated about fundamental premises; are constantly held up from following a line of thought by silly, disruptive questions about basic starting points, questions that turn into arguments. Sometimes, perhaps often, these questions are sincerely meant, similar to the way that questions from college freshmen often slow things up terribly but are, after all things they need answered. When one teaches, one has to consider this, and one has to spell out the premises again, and again, and again, and be willing to clarify and explain. At the same time, though, one has to reach a point where one says, "it is time, now, to move on. If you still need help with this, do some more reading on your own." When one is not teaching entry-level courses, when one is trying to think something through at a fairly high level of analysis, having to reiterate basic premises is not only irritating (which is why women so often get "shrill" or "angry" when they're interrupted YET AGAIN, and why it is so fucking wrong for men to say patronizing things like, "don't be insulting, or you'll never get anyone over to your side"). One presumes--one should presume, one is entitled to presume--that one's auditors are willing to meet one halfway. That they, say, have a basic understanding of feminism, or if not, that they not automatically dismiss it out of hand; that they accord one the respect one is entitled to as a thinker. And indeed, all human beings are thinkers, so I am not saying that only those with Ph.D.s are entitled to this kind of willing, open-minded ear. On the other hand, I do think that those with Ph.D.s (and all smart people) have, by virtue of their degrees/jobs/brains, a special responsibility to be open-minded listeners. To not accept received truths for no good reason.
These are two separate things, the question of whether one always has to articulate one's premises (no), and the question of whether or not one accepts received truths (no). People often confuse them, in good faith or bad, and accuse people of accepting received truths ("obviously she has been brainwashed by feminism") when, in fact, what is happening is that the speaker is simply not bothering to spell out really basic shit because she assumes that most intelligent and thoughtful readers either already know it, or are willing, for the sake of following a line of thought, to accept it conditionally and see where it leads.
Hence, polemic (and, occasionally, humor). I think a lot of the women writers who I enjoy are very "glib," to use a word that's been tossed at me more than a few times. Yes, we are glib. But glibness doesn't automatically mean that we are not thinking, or thoughtful, or that our arguments are without merit. Instead, glibness often represents a challenge, informed by feminism, to the reader: damnit, I am not going to be your mommy here. I am not going to hold your hand. I am going to say what I think and you better scramble to keep up and do your fucking homework, and if you don't then don't come whining to me. Because if I take the time not to be glib, if I take the time to spell things out patiently, and slowly, as I do for pseudonymous kid (most of the time), or as I do for my students (most of the time), then I will never get on to what I am really trying to say. And also because I am entitled to have a sense of humor. I am entitled to speak to an audience who I know accepts my fundamental premises. The rest of you are very, very welcome here: I am, after all, a teacher, and this is, after all, a form of publication, and I know and welcome the results of that. But here I am constructing in my own mind an audience that is, more or less, on the same page I am. I'm willing--as are we all--to occasionally pause and reexamine the opening chapters, to go back over beginning stuff; this is how we learn, after all, and our understanding of things changes over time (which is another element of blogging, by the way). But when I am in the middle of thinking stuff out, it is really frustrating, and disruptive (and, one suspects, sometimes deliberately so), to be interrupted all the time and asked, "sorry, I came late to class. Did I miss anything important?" And it seems to me that this kind of thing happens a lot more to women bloggers than it does to men. And I think that people should think about this.
On blogging as form: it is, obviously, a temporal and informal medium. I take these things as fundamental premises. Therefore, my writing here is often informal (and almost never spell-checked or proofread), and I assume that if I say something silly or stupid or simply not well-thought-out, that I can return to it at a later date, and/or that those who, like me, recognize that this is a periodical and drafty form of writing, might ask questions about it, or think to themselves, "well, that's not one of the better entries," but that over time, a line of reasoning, a sense of thoughtful purpose, comes out. Now, this is also a bit of a problem, formally speaking, because one of the other aspects of web writing is that people dip in and out; they follow links, never to return, they bookmark things but read them irregularly, or skim. I do it. Still, as a writer, at this point, I don't feel I can do a whole lot about that. Hopefully even intermittent reading reveals some things; I don't really expect anyone (except me) to parse my words as if they were holy writ. But I do hope and expect that readers come with an open (enough) mind: not only to what I write, but to all writing, all human attempts to communicate.
And that, I think, is what I am doing here. Saying that.
Monday, September 13, 2004
You know it's the first day of classes when....
You're eating a really crappy pre-made refrigerated sandwich from the snack bar while quickly going over the lecture notes you wrote back in June, trying to remind yourself what you wanted to say.
So, yeah. I started today (way behind everyone else; man, we start late here). Of course, while my syllabi were ready (I finished the grad syllabus last night), I hadn't done the reading I told the grad students to do. And I needed to look up a couple things for my undergrad lecture. But first . . .
I had to take pseudonymous kid to his first day of school!!! Bless him, he was all nervous about it, all week, and had a couple of bedtime-I'm-getting-tired crying jags where he was begging, "don't make me go to school!. But we showed up, bright and early, lunch box and backpack and spare set of clothes and shoes in hand. By the time he'd hung up his jacket and backpack and pinned the construction paper fish with his name on it to the bulletin board, he was totally ready to go. "Mama, papa, I don't need you any more," he said. Rock on! My job is done, now I can relax, man. So we kissed him goodbye, took off, and Mr. B. dropped me off at school . . .
where I quickly re-read the essay I'd assigned the grad students, xeroxed their syllabi, and taught my first ever grad course! Man, they're smart and ambitious. They want to do a field trip to nearby Big City University, which has Real Archives, so I said, sure, if we can figure out how to all get there, let's do that. And the undergrad class, in the afternoon, was nice too. As always, I tried to cover too much (but it's good, it creates the sense that I have Big Expectations). Walking in, I had a little fan club of former students in the first and second rows, which is always a pleasant surprise, since I never check the class list ahead of time. And I tried something new: instead of going over the syllabus first, I had them write on a seemingly innocuous get-to-know-you question (why are you taking this class?) while I took roll, and then I collected answers and streamlined them into the larger rationale for the course, before turning to the syllabus and explaining what and why they're expected to do the things they're expected to do. It seemed to work pretty well, actually; there was a bit of laughter at my fake distress over their honest answers ("I'm taking it because it fit into my schedule and I really don't care about this subject, so what I hope to get out of it is that I hope it'll be interesting after all") and I, for my part, was pleased with my always clever ability to make comments like that seem meaningful ("You know, that's a very practical attitude! Let's talk about the practical advantages of higher education. . .")
So, like pseudonymous kid, all my anxiety sort of dissipated when faced with the reality that school is fun! There are other kids there! And you get to play with them! It's like a big social event, really.
Plus, I'm kind of pleased at the way my MWF teaching schedule does an awesome job of defining T/Th as the days for non-teaching related writing. And I have a big fat break between my morning and afternoon classes that I'm going to dedicate to grading and prep stuff. And office hours in the afternoons to do the bureaucratic bullshit... like today I have to put together a panel for upcoming Big Conference in my field, and also write one of my patented Dr. Bitch last-minute abstracts to see if I can get on someone else's panel while I'm at it.
So yeah. I'm feeling like I've got my shit together. And I'm sure as shit not feeling guilty or undeserving about it, either, unlike some people. Because I haven't been down so long that competent professionalism looks like up to me. Nah. It just feels familiar, and damnit, I'm entitled to enjoy it.
So, yeah. I started today (way behind everyone else; man, we start late here). Of course, while my syllabi were ready (I finished the grad syllabus last night), I hadn't done the reading I told the grad students to do. And I needed to look up a couple things for my undergrad lecture. But first . . .
I had to take pseudonymous kid to his first day of school!!! Bless him, he was all nervous about it, all week, and had a couple of bedtime-I'm-getting-tired crying jags where he was begging, "don't make me go to school!. But we showed up, bright and early, lunch box and backpack and spare set of clothes and shoes in hand. By the time he'd hung up his jacket and backpack and pinned the construction paper fish with his name on it to the bulletin board, he was totally ready to go. "Mama, papa, I don't need you any more," he said. Rock on! My job is done, now I can relax, man. So we kissed him goodbye, took off, and Mr. B. dropped me off at school . . .
where I quickly re-read the essay I'd assigned the grad students, xeroxed their syllabi, and taught my first ever grad course! Man, they're smart and ambitious. They want to do a field trip to nearby Big City University, which has Real Archives, so I said, sure, if we can figure out how to all get there, let's do that. And the undergrad class, in the afternoon, was nice too. As always, I tried to cover too much (but it's good, it creates the sense that I have Big Expectations). Walking in, I had a little fan club of former students in the first and second rows, which is always a pleasant surprise, since I never check the class list ahead of time. And I tried something new: instead of going over the syllabus first, I had them write on a seemingly innocuous get-to-know-you question (why are you taking this class?) while I took roll, and then I collected answers and streamlined them into the larger rationale for the course, before turning to the syllabus and explaining what and why they're expected to do the things they're expected to do. It seemed to work pretty well, actually; there was a bit of laughter at my fake distress over their honest answers ("I'm taking it because it fit into my schedule and I really don't care about this subject, so what I hope to get out of it is that I hope it'll be interesting after all") and I, for my part, was pleased with my always clever ability to make comments like that seem meaningful ("You know, that's a very practical attitude! Let's talk about the practical advantages of higher education. . .")
So, like pseudonymous kid, all my anxiety sort of dissipated when faced with the reality that school is fun! There are other kids there! And you get to play with them! It's like a big social event, really.
Plus, I'm kind of pleased at the way my MWF teaching schedule does an awesome job of defining T/Th as the days for non-teaching related writing. And I have a big fat break between my morning and afternoon classes that I'm going to dedicate to grading and prep stuff. And office hours in the afternoons to do the bureaucratic bullshit... like today I have to put together a panel for upcoming Big Conference in my field, and also write one of my patented Dr. Bitch last-minute abstracts to see if I can get on someone else's panel while I'm at it.
So yeah. I'm feeling like I've got my shit together. And I'm sure as shit not feeling guilty or undeserving about it, either, unlike some people. Because I haven't been down so long that competent professionalism looks like up to me. Nah. It just feels familiar, and damnit, I'm entitled to enjoy it.
