In Praise of Bulky Women Writers

One of the disadvantages of being an administrator is that I routinely wake up in the middle of the night fretting over work problems and how to solve them. I do not remember doing that as a faculty member.  I might have felt irritated with students or sorrowful over their personal plights, but I don't recall that these issues haunted my sleep.

I wish I could say that I got up at 3 a.m. and spent my time productively:  writing poems or sending out submissions or turning blog postings into my memoir or into magazine articles.  Alas, no.

I did write an e-mail to a friend who teaches at a different school in a different state.  She's having issues with her department chair.  I wrote an e-mail about life from her chair's likely perspective.  Perhaps I provided comfort.  Perhaps she thinks I've gone to the dark side.

I should start a separate file of e-mails that might be useful in my memoir.  You may or may not remember that my plan for my memoir is to write a work that weaves together the strands of a quest to live an authentic spiritual life--which you may rightly say has been done to death.  But I want to weave that strand with a strand that explores work and how to live an authentically spiritual life when one must work in an office in a non-spiritual setting.  I haven't seen too many of those kind of memoirs.  How-to books, yes (and not many that I find useful, frankly).  Memoirs, no.

After e-mail catch up, I found myself reading about Susan Gubar's memoir of life with ovarian cancer, Memoir of a Debulked Woman.  I wept at this article in The Chronicle of Higher Education.  I am not ready for this generation of feminists, the ones who blazed the trail for me, to die.  I don't know that I would have survived grad school without The Madwoman in the Attic.  I spent money on that book; I knew how important it would be to have my own copy.  I fully expected it to go out of print at any moment.  Happily, I was wrong.

I listened to this interview with Gubar on NPR's program Talk of the Nation.  I found it both inspiring, depressing, realistic, and well, depressing.  The statistics on this disease are startling.  The many ways that treatment can go terribly wrong are horrific.

Again, I find myself thinking about work.  The issues that woke me up a few hours ago are not really important.  We have been losing funding for our stand-alone tutoring center for years.  If we lose it completely, we will all go on.  It will not be perfect, far from it, but we are running out of options, and we face many cuts to the budget.  In the long run, cuts to our tutoring program may be the trivial ones.

How I wish I could believe that these cuts will save us from the larger, more painful ones.

How I wish I could stop plotting and planning over these cuts that are handed to me.  I am not consulted.  I am not given choices.  I am wasting mental energy on this.  I will not have any say over these cuts or any others.

I should follow the model of Susan Gubar, who continues to work and to write.  We have no guarantees after all.  It's a good question:  what should our legacy be?

Gubar leaves behind work that was so important.  In 1986, I bought The Norton Anthology of Literature by Women, edited by Gilbert and Gubar, not for a class, but because I felt like it was such a lifeline to me as a woman who wanted to be a writer.  I needed to know that it could be done, and that anthology was proof.  I still have it, even though it's currently in its 3rd edition.

I may only have a few decades left to write.  I may have substantially less.  What do I want to leave behind?  What haven't I written yet that needs to be written?  What story is mine to tell?

May Day or International Worker's Day?

So, how will you be celebrating this first day of May?  Will you weave ribbons around a Maypole?  Will you go to a demonstration in favor of worker's rights?  Will you bring a bouquet of flowers into the house?  Will you sing "Solidarity Forever" or "L'Internationale"?

I imagine that most of us will go to our jobs on this fine May Day.  Well, those of us in the U.S. will go to our jobs, if we still have jobs.  May Day is a holiday in many other parts of the industrialized world.

In my elementary school in the 1970's, we had a May Day celebration that focused on flowers and Maypoles, not on workers.  Looking back, I'm amazed that our teachers were able to rig together a Maypole.  We spent weeks practicing the weaving of the ribbons in the Maypole dance.  We had a whole Mayday festival.  Parents came.  There was a Mayday king and queen.

Ah, those good old pagan school days!

I have spent most of my life in climates where Spring came long before the first day of May.  In fact, in most places I've lived, Spring has shifted into Summer by May 1.

My inner Marxist would want me to give up all pagan celebrations of beauty.  My inner Marxist would demand that I transform the workplace.

How I wish I could.  My inner Marxist and my inner 19 year old have amazingly simplistic ideas of how the world works and how much power individuals have.  That's why I both love my inner Marxist and my inner 19 year old and find them frustrating.

And yes, it can get a bit crowded in my head.

My tired worker self goes through her days noting convergences that other people might not notice and making poems out of the connections.  A few years ago, May Day, Ascension Day, and performance review deadlines all converged, and I wrote a poem, "Conducting a Performance Review on the Feast of the Ascension." 


Conducting a Performance Review on the Feast of the Ascension

I have wrestled
with these forms—a modern
crucifixion—for over forty
days. I spend more time
trying to coerce
the software into cooperation
than I do in assessment
of employee performance.

Regulations require me to assemble
the same information across several forms.
Employees must cobble
together thick packets of proof
that they’ve done what the forms
report, although if they hadn’t,
the work would have ground to a halt.

How I wish I could ascend
above all this bureaucracy,
that I could shower
my employees with all the glory
they deserve. I long to welcome
them with praise instead of forms.

Alas, the modern workplace
has yet to be redeemed,
and so, I slog
through forms and documentation and rubrics and scales
of pay. I protect my cowering, stressed
employees as best I can.
I whistle “Solidarity Forever” as I complete
the tasks that must be done.

Last Chances, Journals, and the Comfort (?) of Nature

First of all, a gentle reminder:  if you haven't already entered, today is the last day to enter the 2012 Big Poetry Give-Away.  To enter, leave a comment at this post.  I'm giving away a copy of each of my chapbooks and a yet-to-be-determined Adrienne Rich book.

Today is a landmark day for those of us who have journalled/blogged obsessively and perhaps wondered if what we're writing might be publishable in a different form.  On this day in 1952, the journal of Anne Frank was first published in English.

The Writer's Almanac post for today gives us this quote from the journal:   "'As long as this exists,' I thought, 'and I may live to see it, this sunshine, the cloudless skies, while this lasts, I cannot be unhappy.' The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quite alone with the heavens, nature, and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst the simple beauty of nature. As long as this exists, and it certainly always will, I know that then there will always be comfort for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances may be. And I firmly believe that nature brings solace in all troubles."


We find it in the place of the poem that the website usually gives us.  Does it work as a prose poem?  Certainly Anne Frank didn't see herself as writing poetry when she wrote this chunk of text.   Should an editor make this decision?  For those of you teaching literature classes, these questions can lead to some fascinating conversations.  For a more modern example of a chunk of text that has functioned as journal piece, short fiction, and prose poem, you could include Carolyn Forche's "The Colonel."

It's the birthday of Annie Dillard, a different Anne, a different journaller who also encouraged us to find our true selves and purposes in nature.  I remember reading A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek after years of hearing people talk about how much they loved the book.  Reading that book reminded me of reading Thoreau's Walden:  I had such high hopes, and each book was not what I expected.  In short, I was bored. 

I read those books when I was much younger, an adolescent.  It would be interesting to revisit them as a reader at midlife.

As I'm looking at past blog posts with an eye to reshaping them into a memoir, I'm inspired by the idea that journals can indeed be shaped into great literature.

I'm also intrigued by thinking about these writers (Frank, Thoreau, and Dillard) and their love of nature.  I wonder how this idea of nature as solace and comfort will be changing as nature turns into a rapacious avenger.  I haven't seen this change in memoir/journal/observation books yet, but I don't claim to have searched aggressively--actually, not at all.

But if I needed to write a dissertation, that topic would intrigue me.

Political Roots, Vegetable Roots, Southern Roots

Today is the birthday of so many writers who have been important to me.  Carolyn Forche was born today, and a few years ago, I wrote a longer post about how groundbreaking she was, how vital her work has been to me.  Her work has been strongly rooted in the political, and I'll always be grateful to her for showing how many ways it can be done.

Today is also the birthday of Alice Waters, most famous for founding Chez Panisse, a restaurant dedicated to local and fresh food.  I will be forever grateful that she brought us ideas of slowing down and enjoying our food.  I love that she's shown us how delicious a plate of perfectly prepared vegetables can be.

We shouldn't overlook the fact that she's an activist too.  She's created the idea of an Edible Schoolyard, bringing gardening to many schools.  I'd argue that knowing how to grow food and working in a garden will serve many students better than P.E. courses where students play dodgeball.  She's advocated organic food.

I've been a variety of vegetarian for a very long time; I first started experimenting with vegetarian food when I was 16.  Chefs like Alice Waters paved the way for my own experiments.  I can no longer claim to be a vegetarian, alas.  On Thursday night, I ate a delicious pork chop for dinner.  But many days, I eat no meat, and I can go for many days eating nothing but fruit, vegetables, and beans.  Yum.

Today is also the birthday of Harper Lee, who wrote To Kill a Mockingbird and helped Truman Capote research the events that would be told in the book In Cold Blood, and then retired into a rarely broken silence.

Of course, once you've written a book as perfect as To Kill a Mockingbird, why write anything else?  And the transition of the book to film is about as perfect as can be too.  Even now, over 50 years after this book was published, this work feels relevant in all kinds of ways, no small accomplishment.

I will always love the spunkiness of Scout, the wisdom of Atticus, the kindness of Calpurnia.  How wonderful to have a big brother like Jem.  I love that Lee could address issues of social justice without descending into stereotype or preachiness.  I love that the flawed characters are not beyond redemption.  I admire Lee's decision to give us a realistic ending to the trial.

It's a powerful lesson:  sometimes you have truth on your side, but you won't be successful.  Sometimes you can't transcend your time period.

And the book reminds us that even with that knowledge, we must try.  We are not excused.  I would argue that all of these female authors--Forche, Waters, and Lee, along with so many others--call us to speak out for a better world, even if the odds of success are slim to none.  With some issues, like Waters with food, we may make successful strides.  With some, like racism, we will find ourselves moving forward and sliding backward.  With some, like the situation in El Salvador, it's too early to tell.

But witness is important.  Effort is vital.  We are like those medieval Cathedral builders, working on projects we may not live to see completed.  But we must play our part.

To Dream Big or To Dream Small?

Today is the birthday of two writers who have been very inspirational to me.  It's the birthday of Ludwig Bemelmans, author of the beloved Madeleine books.  I loved the character of Madeleine, who was a feisty little girl--yes, I'm seeing a theme here, Jane Eyre, Meg from A Wrinkle in Time, spirited females of all sorts.

But the books make clear that Madeleine is good at heart, even though her behavior may not always be.  There's one book where the girls meet a truly terrible child, a "bad hat."  I'm going to spend my day saying, "Well, you know, he's a bad hat" instead of "He's such a jerk."  Not that I would go around saying that about people.

I also remember the book where Madeleine had to get her appendix out.  I wonder if my fear of hospitals goes back to this book, even she lives through the experience with her typical bravery.

And what delightful drawings.  If I ever lived in France, I would expect it to look like that.

Some part of my writer's self would love to write books like the Madeleine books or the Amelia Bedelia books.  My nephew just discovered Amelia Bedelia, and he thinks they're hilarious.  Not every part ages well, since the language has changed, and we're all in Amelia Bedelia's predicament now.  Who says, "Draw the drapes"?  We'd all break out our sketchbooks, just like Amelia Bedelia does, when her employer gives her the to-do list with that task on it.

Those were the books that made me love to read.  What a wonderful accomplishment, to write books that spark a love of reading in children.

It's also the birthday of August Wilson, who represents a different dream for my writer's self.  He wrote a play for every decade of the 20th century, a play that represents the life of African-Americans during the twentieth century, one play for each decade. And each play is solid work.

He is one of those rarities, a person who was expelled from public school (when he was 15), but taught himself everything he needed to know from the library. 

What a sweeping idea, to write a cycle plays that capture the 20th century as seen by black people.  And he managed to avoid the pitfall of creating cardboard characters who exist solely to talk about the important issues of the age.  His characters are dealing with the daily dross we all must deal with.  His characters don't exist solely to explore racism.  His plays are much more nuanced than that.

If you took on a huge project, what would it be?  Would you break it into smaller parts or would it be a single sweeping work?  What are the big ideas that haunt you?  What are the small, daily objects and experiences that delight you?

Poetry Prompts for Poem in Your Pocket Day

Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day.  Will I carry a poem in my pocket today?  Most of my clothes have no pockets.  I have tried to get in the habit of taking a volume of poetry with me to meetings.  Many of our meetings start late, and I have a few minutes to dip in and out of a book, to read a poem or two.

I started my Poem in Your Pocket Day by finishing a poem I started in early March.  My friend has suffered quite a trauma, a house fire.  I'm hopeful that she'll survive and create art out of it.  She will be happy simply to have her life return to normal.

A few months ago, she wrote this blog post, which I thought was quite poetic and made me hope that she gets a memoir out of this experience, in later years, when she can bear to return to it.

I saw her blog post and on Feb. 29, I wrote to some local writer friends:

"So, feel like writing a poem? Want a prompt? I've been thinking about ashes of all sorts, which led me to this prompt:


write a poem that uses imagery from _____'s burned house--or any house of your choosing, burned or whole--and your religious tradition, however you want to define that. Bonus points for including mythology or fairy tales.

Sure, you'll say that I have it easy, having celebrated Ash Wednesday last week.

Happy Poetry Play!"

Yes, I'm only just now finishing the poem.  Such is the Spring I have had.

Perhaps you don't like that prompt?  Here's another.  A friend burned a CD for us, with a Doc Watson album on it.  My favorite song from that CD had this line:

"What does the deep sea say?
It moans and it groans
and it thrashes and it foams
and it rolls on its weary way"

The ocean as weary--I usually think of the ocean as being nourishing or mighty or any number of other adjectives but never weary!

So, today I'll write a new poem, prompted by that lyric and that question, "What does the deep sea say?"

Other ways to celebrate Poem in Your Pocket Day:

Put a poem in the lunches that you pack for loved ones.

Leave poems in random places, like a bench or a grocery store shelf.

Tuck a poem into a ream of paper in the copy room.

Leave a poem on the desk of a coworker.

Write poems as after school or evening activity.

Read a poem at a meal.  Contemplate--or discuss with others, if you're lucky enough to have dining companions.

From Health Intake to Meetings: Pokes and Prods of All Kinds

Yesterday my day at work started with a visit to the phlebotomist.  I plan to do the tasks I need to do to get a wellness discount on my insurance.  Before the needle stick, I fasted for 12 hours.

It's amazing how much I get done in the morning when I'm not fixing my breakfast, eating my breakfast, making a pot of coffee, fixing my fussy coffee drink (which includes milk, sugar, and cocoa: coffee purists would tell me that I'm not drinking coffee), warming up my coffee drink, and cleaning up my breakfast things.

Of course, I didn't get any writing done because I went for a jog at the beach to keep myself from thinking how much I really wanted to be drinking fussy coffee drinks and eating breakfast.

My day at work ended with one of those meetings that leaves me drained.  The first 50 minutes repeated information that we'd already gotten several meetings ago, and frankly, the transmission of that information wasn't very interesting the first time we heard it.  Not for the first time did I think of Beckett and absurdist theatre.

At one point, I glanced out of the window and saw a beautiful butterfly.  What was a butterfly doing 2 stories up?  Feeding on flowers, of course.

I tried to see that butterfly as a sign or a symbol of hope.

Today is the birthday of Ted Kooser, who is also a symbol of hope to me.  Today's entry at The Writer's Almanac website tells us:  "Every morning, he got up at 4:30, made a pot of coffee, and wrote until 7. Then he put on his suit and tie and went to work. By the time he retired in 1999, Kooser had published seven books of poetry, including Not Coming to Be Barked At (1976), One World at a Time (1985), and Weather Central (1994). He resigned himself to being a relatively unknown poet, but he continued to write every morning. Then, in 2004, he got a phone call informing him that he had been chosen as poet laureate of the United States."

I love the narrative arc of this story:  one can work at a normal job (Kooser worked in an insurance firm) and go on to be poet laureate of the U.S.  I hang on tightly to those narratives when I must go to meetings that go from boring to combative to everyone being frustrated by our restrictions--all in the course of 2 hours.

And if I have trouble hanging on to that hope, I love that the universe sends me a butterfly to remind me of the possibilities of hope and resurrection!