Virgil Opens A Second Front

Jesus H. Christ. (You'll see why that's a pun in a minute.)

It never rains, but it pours.

As if it weren't bad enough that I'm gearing up to bring back Dante, there is a new maelstrom brewing. As some of you may know, Sister has had previous troubles in her attempts to be free of the clutches of the Jehovah's Witness cult (see Fundies Gone Wild). Because they are run by lawyers and judges, they keep extensive reports on people, things like your service records (how much time you spend in the business of bothering people with your religious tracts) and especially if you've ever had any problems that caused you to be hauled up in front of the elders. It's all kept in a file with your name on it, usually in the house of the presiding overseer, and if I'm not mistaken, a copy is sent to the Brooklyn main headquarters for reference. When my 18 year old ex-boyfriend turned rat on me (best thing that ever happened to me), he turned in every piece of paper I'd ever given him. That's been in a file for coming up on 11 years now. I have no idea where it is. I'll find out when I get the time. In the meantime, there's more important work at hand.

Because Sister left the church abruptly, there are a few things that need ironed out in her file. In essense, she's "inactive", but that drives the congregation she left batty, because there were other judicial procedings that issued from her departure. See, Sister divorced her no-good Neanderthal husband. Good riddance. But, in JW mythology, you can only divorce for reasons of adultery, and you can only remarry if the other person has committed adultery. Her Ex-Puke remarried really quickly after they divorced. Because he couldn't prove proper grounds, they disfellowshipped him (means the same as excommunication). He's claiming he had grounds, and they want to interrogate Sister to determine whether he does or not. They probably also want to kick her out for divorcing without proof of adultery.

For the past year, they've called her nonstop, staked out her house, and generally made her life more miserable than it needs to be. She's in therapy. They've caused her to need extra sessions. They've put undue pressure on her. For those outside of the cult, you're probably thinking, "What's so hard about just telling them to shove it??" The answer is, you're ingrained with a fear that runs so deep it takes years to work out. What they "do" to you is nothing, really. But it's psychologically devastating if you're not ready for it (and sometimes even when you think you are). She's done with the JWs. But she still doesn't have the courage to face the fact that they're probably going to disfellowship her by hook or crook.

Their books need closing.

When I went down for Derby, (run, horsie, horsie!!) we stayed with Sister. Her cell phone rang while we were out Friday night. She grimaced when she looked at it, and told me that it was one of the elders again. I looked at her recent call screen. There were over 17 calls within the span of a few days. Why it suddenly hit me like it did I don't know, but I asked her, "Do you want me to call and put a stop to it?"

"Can you??" She asked. It's funny how we who were formerly on the inside don't really think we can. At least not at first.

I hit the redial key and a man answered. "Hi. My name is Virgil. This number appears on my sister's caller I.D. numerous times. Are you Nosy Elder? You are? Well, Sister asks me to tell you to please stop calling her. She's in therapy. She'll contact you when she's ready to talk. The number is on here over 17 times."

"Uh..er...uh...OK. Sure." End of phone conversation.

But not the end of the story.

Sister calls me last week to tell me that a subsidiary branch in the town she ran away from of The Man's Company she works for has called her to tell her that two dudes in suits (read, JW elders) came in and said they had a package for her, but gosh darnit, they lost her address. Could that branch please look it up and give it to them? And the subsidiary branch said, Go to hell, that's private stuff, weirdos. And immediately called Sister to report. She freaked out.

I just got pissed. And because I'm in a sour enough mood about the humanites, life and the universe right now anyway, I decided that plenty of people would know about it, and that this insanity would stop. It also afforded me a way to mess with my psychotic mother.

I called Mom and relayed the facts to her. I thought she wouldn't believe it, that she'd say Sister had misunderstood or was exaggerating, as she often claims. Turns out, she believes it--because the same elders had come to Mom after they were rejected from the subsidiary branch and asked her for Sister's address! She had the good sense to tell them no, even though she had given them Sister's cell phone number a year ago. I did my best to keep my voice level, but the bottom line is that we had it out over her stupid cult. I told her very simply (as most things need to be told to her these days) that what they were doing was destructive to Sister's therapy, and that it had to stop. She said, "They just want to talk to her, Virgil, to help her. They just want to be fair."

Whoa. Fair? Sounds like a trial to me. I pointed that out. And I also said that whether Mom comprehended it or not, being on "trial" was quite distressing and taxing, something Sister absolutely does not need right now. She kept complaining that I wasn't seeing her side. So I broke it down: "I don't care what they want. It freaks her out. It costs her more therapy. It needs to stop. And here's what you need to do about it. You need to go and talk to them, and explain to them that we have cell phone records, that I asked once, and that they still pursued. That's considered stalking. It meets the requirements for a restraining order. So, either you tell them to back off, or I'll send a certified letter to every elder in that congregation explaining that if they don't back off, we're filing papers against them. Restraining orders are published in the paper. They won't want that. But they stop, and they stop now."

"OKOKOKOKOKOKOK." Was pretty much the response. She was shocked to hear I'd called an elder and told him to fuck off, although, strangely not shocked to hear that her daughter had 17 stalking phone calls & messages from same idiot elder. I think she doesn't think I'm serious, because it's inconceivable to her that I'd send a letter or file a restraining order. Against them? God's servant here on Earth??

Hell, yes I would.

Of course, this opens me up personally to the last attack they can foment on a former member: apostasy (a wiki for the broad definition--looks like me and Nietsche have something in common) To insiders, apostates are literally of the devil--possessed by his will. They're declared apostates because they are considered to be actively working against and defaming God's organization on Earth, i.e. the JWs. If you haven't noticed, I've been doing that for some time now. Just talking about it negatively qualifies. Starting the meet-up for ex-JWs is a big ol' giant piece of evidence in itself. Sending a certified letter certainly meets the criteria. Apostates (according to the mythology) will be immediately destroyed at Armageddon, no second chances. If I believed in that hogwash, I'd still die willingly rather than kiss the ass of their Jehovah for an eternity. Apostates are the walking dead.

So what happens outside of the mythology? Pretty much nothing. It's like waving your fingers mysteriously at someone and chanting: You're an imp! You're an imp! Oh, except your family can't talk to you anymore. You see, when someone is merely disfellowshipped, all the other JW's act like they don't exist. They walk around you, talk around you, pretend they don't see you--it can be quite fun to mess with them in a grocery store. But your family, at least, can still talk to you (although some family members choose not to). That's a big innovation since the 80s, because so many family members complained--the Society had to relent. But when you're an apostate, talking with me would be like actively choosing Satan. (I sort of think some of my colleagues and bosses look at me that way now!)

Where the personal problem for me could come in would be with my mother. How, then, would she treat Dante? Would she try to write me out of her will, which contains around 100 acres of family land (on my father's side, no less) that has been in the family for over 100 years? She'd probably donate it to the church. And then, out of spite, I'd burn it to the ground.

Who knows. Whatever the ramifications are, they'll go down between me and my mother. Not the first time. This time around, I'd have to care to be scared. My sister is more important to me than my mother. Sister has a life ahead of her. Mom has buried her's in the grave with my father 12 years ago. Mom has betrayed and abandoned both me and Sister.

So fuck it. The war is on. People who become free of this cult shouldn't be a mental slave to the fear of it for the rest of their lives. And its leaders shouldn't get away with criminal behavior under the banner of religion.

Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!

-- Virgil

Post Note: I fully expect Danny Hazzard, that ever vigilant apostate JW, to hit this post with his usual reply. ;) Ex-JW's on the internet know what I'm talking about!

Virgil Goes to War

As I sit here, sipping my Mimosa and reflecting on the past year without Dante, it occurs to me that it's time for a change. He has a good father in Kentucky, who has longed for him to come and stay. But things haven't quite worked out the way I hoped they would. For the first six months or so, it was great. While I missed Dante tremendously, he was doing just fine. He had a great second grade teacher, he was fully involved in extracurricular stuff. Eventually, I would call at night and no one would be home--they'd be off doing fun stuff. Sometimes I'd go several days without talking to him. He was happy.

I threw myself into a bunch of work. I was nearly crazy those first few months without him. It's hard to believe he's been gone nearly two years. I did everything I could to keep myself occupied, to the point where I can barely keep up now. Every time I called, everyone would tell me how great he was doing. At least through the second grade, he seemed to be doing great. But when he hit the third grade, things changed.

I blame part of that on a crappy teacher who has long since needed to retire. But there was something else at work. Dante's grades started dropping dramatically. He started getting into a lot of trouble at school--most of the stuff I thought was pretty petty, myself, considering the reaction from the school. But the surprising part was, his new family didn't seem to care. I would freak out over bad grades, they just shrugged. Parent/Teacher conferences were either unattended or attended by my mother, who has a psychotic need to present the best possible face to the world, regardless of the true situation. His grades kept getting worse and worse. There was an incident where some kid busted his nose on the playground; Dante came home with his shirt covered in blood. Nobody bothered to call the school, and the school didn't bother sending a note home. When I drove seven hours to set up a special meeting with his teacher, she acted like it wasn't her problem; I made sure to clear that up for her--but why is it I have to drive seven hours to bring this to someone's attention?

Recently, Dante's been in tears on the phone with me. "I miss you," is all he says. Once he was nearly inconsolable because he dreamed I was in a car wreck and died. "But it could happen!" He kept saying over and over again. And I assured him that even though that was true for anybody, I did lots of things to stay safe while in a car. When I talk to his father about Dante complaining about Kentucky and saying he wants to move back, he tells me "Oh, I think it's just because he misses you." In the background (when he stays at my mom's house), I can hear Mom saying when he weeps on the phone to me, "Grow up! Stop that! It's just your mother."

It's just your mother. It's just because he misses you.

While mine isn't going to win any lifetime awards for mothering, I'd like to think I meant a whole lot more than "just" a mother. When in the hell did "just" missing your mother qualify as a bottom of the ladder excuse? What else could be more important to a kid his age? I realized that for the entire third grade year Dante just finished, I've been placated and lied to by the people who are supposed to be doing things in his best interests. I've been sold a bill of goods that says a mom isn't really all that important in a kid's life, that her work and what she stands for doesn't amount to much.

But Momma drove 7 hours to bitch out the teacher--and ask for the first time "OK, you told me everything he did wrong; so what does he do right?"

Moms, if they are any account at all, champion the strength in their kid and support the weakness. Things got noticeably easier on Dante for a while after I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with his teacher, about the bullying, about her policy of turning work in, a whole lot of things.

Moms let their sons bury their heads in their laps and bawl their eyes out, if that's what it takes, rather than telling them to "man up" or that they won't get anything from Dairy Queen if they don't stop crying.

Moms demand accountablity from everyone involved in their sons' lives.

Moms soften the shortcomings of their sons. Instead of bitching in front of him "His coach says he just plays around on the baseball team," Moms reply with a shrug, "It's not major league baseball. What else is there to do, but play--nobody can hit it out of the infield anyway." (Dante plays right outfield.)

When their sons score a medal for being the best reader out of their entire class and yet get an F in language arts, Moms raise their eyebrows. They get really, really interested. Especially when those around their sons claim they have no idea how that could happen--nor did they bother to ask the teacher.

Moms go to bat for their kids.

Moms step in and say "Wait a minute. This.stops.now."

Moms are the brick wall that older, should-be wiser people run into when the kids are treated like crap or expected to act like adults when they're only 9 years old.

Moms are made of iron. Kids know that. Other people learn that quickly when bad things happen to the kids.

Moms take charge.

Moms get things done.

Moms go to war for their kids.



This chaos and nonsense and nonsupport that has been hidden from me for a year stops and it stops now. Everyone else apart from me won't like it. There will be a million and one excuses, most of them blamed on my child, about why I should just look away and let them keep running things. It's a testament to how fearful of my reaction they are that they would hide such things from me in the first place. I'm sure there will be a lot of resistance.

But I don't go to war over just any old thing (contrary to what those around me might think). I have very few lines in the sand. This is one of them.

Dante is coming home. Because Virgil is going to war.

-- Virgil

The Humanities Is (Are?) All Too Human

Let me just state upfront that I'm a firm believer in the criticism that academia is an "Ivory Tower". This particular department is unusually involved in the community, but for the most part that isn't the trend overall. The trend is to discuss Really Bizarre Ideas with the unspoken knowledge that no one outside of your field is going to bother to read your work, and that it is best only repeated as amusing anecdotes at cocktail parties while slightly drunk.

It's bad enough when the outside world questions the value of your work and ideas, but it's even more reprehensible when you get screwed from within the Tower. To paraphrase the Joker, sometimes this school needs an enema. It's really aggravating to be part of the humanities, because every injustice seems the worse for it. It's like being in a Literacy program and misspelling something on your brochure. People look at you funny because you're expected to be held to higher spelling standards than the rest of the world, I guess. I have several bitch-fests simmering; here is but a whiff:

I'm really sick of people smiling and acting like they're all "humanitarian," when all they really want to do is mold people into yet another stereotype of what they think it means to be "successful." All you really prove when you smile with your mouth and cut with your eyes is that you're just as fascist as any other hegemonic structure. Yes, I used a grad student word. Some people can shove every syllable of it up their syllabus. When you single someone out for special brutalization, heap a bunch of extra work on him, cut out the support from in under him,--grr-- I could go on, but I'm afraid I'll go bursting into the coordinator's office if I do. And then my friend would probably get another three page "reflection" about the incident as extra work just for spite. Putting someone against the ropes and then killing him with paperwork just so you can have a paper trail of how hard you "tried" to rehabilitate that person is reprehensible. As one girl--who interestingly isn't here anymore--said, they're really helpful to you in all the ways that don't matter.

Getting called to the "Principal's office" earlier this semester didn't improve my disposition. Don't tell me that you're only trying to "put out a fire" when you're really just going to go and tell the other person you had a "talk" with me, and everything should be better now. When I call you on it, don't look like I just tried to light you on fire. If you tell her it's better now, I promise you that I'll ensure it won't be. Although it was really funny when you asked if it was "OK" and I said "No." The look on your face was hilarious. But I have to wonder if you really expected me to do anything less than that, besides give the speech I did about my right to say what I need to say. When you start the conversation by telling me I didn't do anything wrong "BUT," then you have to wonder why we're even sitting here in the first place. I'm not one to roll over and play peacemaker. Especially when it's all about the other person completely overreacting. How is it my problem that she needs a perspective adjustment?

And speaking of attitude adjustments, don't bitch to me about your reputation when you haven't done any work. People don't go around demanding respect--they earn it. So get some actual work done, and stop basing your opinions of yourself on the fact that I failed your student. It probably had nothing to do with you.

For my one particularly type A-plus colleague--Stop asking me whether or not the professor wants it done this way or that. How the hell should I know? I'm not privy to how he grades or what he does. Ask the man, I'm sure he'll tell you. And while we're on the subject, for godssake, stop popping in my classroom before it starts and telling me your bizarre administrative issues. It weirds out the kids.

To the supposedly liberal administration: stop fiendishly googling people who work with you on the internet, only to drag them into your office and have a little "talk" about how their public persona reflects on the university. Whatever happened to free speech? Whatever happened to the interesting debate about public rhetoric? When you called me into the office, I hoped it was about my blog. Unfortunately, it wasn't. But I was all fired up with some right to free speech crap. I actually still have that one saved for a rainy day.

For the little gossipy troublemaker in my own grad class. I have been giving you the evil eye in class because you're an evil person. Don't go asking other people about what I may or may not have said. Grow some balls and ask me. After we've cleared that up, then I can fill you in on what I think of your social behavior when you've had a few too many. I'm still good and jacked about that, and it didn't even happen to me.

But the best part had to be getting called into the office yet again (ironically, nothing happens via email--there are no written records that way), only to be told that you have been "strongly discouraged" from working with me this summer. Yep, that independent study got screwed, meaning I have to do my writing sample and another class, as if I'm not busy enough. Oh, and that my big plans to do my specialty in the classroom just got screwed because there was some red tape you conveniently forgot to tell me about. But it turns out that's OK--you're doing it instead, and if I'm really good, maybe you'll let me help every now and then. Oh, and that conference you wanted me to go to? You told me the wrong dates, and so I missed the submission deadline. But that's OK, because once I checked it out, I discovered they weren't calling for papers anyway--they wanted people to put panels together; dude, that's an administrative i.e. your thing, and way over my head, especially since you just pulled all the support away from me. But the beauty of the whole thing is how you personally asked that I be kept where I was in the teaching line-up "so we could work on the things we have planned." What things? You canceled all of them, remember?

Well, guess what? I figured out how to do it myself without your red tape, without your help, found a new conference, got a new reader with more academic chops than you to look over my writing sample (who, by the way, is amazed that you passed up the chance to work with me), and by this summer, I'll be doing what you hope to set up yourself (after I gave you the idea). Oh, and you'll be needing an agency to do your little project with. Good luck with that. I know them all very well, you know. I am one of them. I think you forgot that part. But you'll figure it out pretty damn quick when you go to set this up. Put that on your brown butcher's paper!

I know that every department in the country is more or less this way. Every dept. is catty; the pressure is enormous. We get paid very little to do the most important jobs in the university. If students can't write and think critically (English 101 & 102), then they aren't likely to succeed at all in the university. We're expected to publish before we graduate, if we hope to get a real job that pays anything. We're expected to do a full graduate load while teaching their most important classes. In fact, because we teach, we end up having to take classes through the summer in order to finish on time, because the university won't fund us past the Master's limit they've imposed on the program, even though they've slowed us down with teaching responsibilities. We have a 50% success rate on the job market. That should scare the pants off of most of us. (Except for me, as composition/rhetoric has a 100% success rate, and there often aren't enough people for jobs--nyah, nyah.)

Isn't it hard enough to live on an underrated teacher's pay without making it more difficult on everyone involved? I stay in it because I love it. And I love the kids. I love what I do, and I've figured out a way to live on the pay and still have what I want.

But I don't need departmental backbiting and sniping. And I'm certainly not one to keep quiet about it!

Thank you, gentle reader, for tolerating what I'm sure seems like total nonsense.

-- Virgil

Public School Rants: Part 3

There are several reasons that both Dante & I have such issues with public schools--and I feel as though I need to say that apart from his 3rd grade year, we both have made good grades in them. The schools still need more work. I have huge issues with presumed authority, and I'm sure he picks that up off of me. But, I don't believe you have to threaten or punish kids to get them to engage in class. If you do, it means you've screwed something up. Fix that screw up first; don't keep taking it out on the kid.

A perfect example of this happened during Dante's 1st grade year. When the little boys decided to be rowdy (or bored, as was usually the case), the teacher would send them to the principal's office; on your third visit, they were told, they got a paddling. Which, of course, is illegal. They would creep down to the office, the Principal would pull out that antiquated board, and the little boys would start to cry and promise to be good. I found out about this, because Dante was nearing his third strike. He was terrified--mainly because he never really remembers what he gets in trouble for, so it could happen at any given moment.

It did not sit well with Mamma.

The conversation went something like this:
D- Momma, if I get sent to Mr. --'s office again, he'll spank me!
V- No, he won't. He isn't allowed.
D- But he showed it to me!
V- He isn't allowed to. He'll never go through with it.
D- But the teacher said he would. They said it's true, Mamma.
*And here I broke an adult conspiracy rule, I'm sure, but I'd have to care. Call a foul on me already.*
V- Baby, it's against the law to hit kids in school. I was in school when they made it against the law. Your teacher and Mr. -- are telling you that because they hope it will scare you into acting like they want you to act. If Mr. -- paddles you, he'll go to jail, because it's against the law. That's provided he lives after Mamma comes down and beats him back with his own paddle. They're just scaring you.

Knowledge is power. Of course, the obligatory "your son is a subversive instigator" report came to me the next time I went to pick him up (from both the teacher and the Principal). Here's what went down. I've never been prouder.

Dante commits some error and is then sent to the Principal, while being told in front of the whole class that this is, in fact, his third visit and he should know what to expect. Lots of gasps from the children. Dante appeared shaken. Dante goes to Principal, who then pulls out said wooden paddle and gives speech about third visits and bad boys. Dante's lip starts poking out and quivering. Principal opens his mouth and Dante jumps to his feet, and in a wavery little voice says:

"Before you hit me, you need to call my Mamma. Because it's against the law to hit kids in school!!"

Principal is stunned. Puts paddle down and says something about "Letting you go this time" and dismisses Dante. Dante is equally stunned that it worked, and marches proud as a peacock back to class. The teacher smugly asks what happened, again in front of the whole class, hoping that Dante's humiliating experience would serve as a warning to the other little boys. Dante, still standing in front of class, announces proudly,

"Nothin' happened. Because it's against the law to hit kids in school."

Let chaos reign.

At least until you figure out a better way to channel it.

-- Virgil

Derby Equations and Observations

The Kentucky Derby was F.U.N.! I haven't had so much fun in a long time. We have a big list of things we want to do differently next time, but all in all, it was quite the time. It's really hard to describe what happens at the Derby. I'm glad we went ahead and did the full ensemble--dresses, hats, shoes, bags, the whole nine yards. I would say approximately 20% of the people in the infield were dressed up. Next year, we'll get box seats and then wander around the infield in between races.

As you can see, the heathens behind us chose not to dress up at all. I wore a slightly darker version of Kentucky Blue, and Director/Buddy wore her "pretty woman" fantasy brown & white polka dot dress. It was fairly entertaining, though, as the day wore on and the drinks kept coming. She let out a massive belch, and I changed the words to "Pretty Woman", which had us laughing 'til we were crying after about four lines: "Pretty Woman/Drinkin' on your beer/Pretty Woman/What's that I hear?"

Other things I noticed:

* Apparently, yelling "HORSIE, HORSIE, HORSIE, RUN HORSIE,RUN!!" is not an appropriate Derby chant. People will stare at you. I don't know where it came from, but that's what I yelled through all ten races. I saw the eleventh race, but only because I needed a time out myself at that point.

* Mint julips = gross. I think if I could've made mine with the good bourbon I have at home to the strength I wanted, it would've been OK. Director/Buddy swallowed two down and had to have a time out.

* Horses coming around the track sound like thunder. You also don't get to see much of them in the infield, but when you do, you should totally yell "Run, horsie, horsie, run!"

* Cigar + sunscreen + port-o-potty + hot dogs = Derby smell. My contacts smelled like horse the next day. Not sure how that happened, considering I wasn't very close to one.

* Sun + booze = DE-Runk. You'll never see it coming until it hits you like a thunderclap between the eyes. At that point, all the horsies look the same, and all their silks start blending in together. It also means, quite embarassingly, that you could just possibly miss out on who actually won the Derby. And that you would have to catch it on the news the next morning.

I bet on Scat Daddy--how can you not bet on a horse named Scat Daddy? That bastard was nowhere to be seen. But I also bet on Dominican (who was also nowhere to be seen) because he reminded me of my winter vacation, and I accidentally bet on Curlin (who made me a little money) instead of Storm in May, because I was *ahem* rather tipsy at that point, and I couldn't read my own racing notes. But between the two of us, we bet on every single horse in the Derby, because I'll be damned if we were going to our first Derby and losing!

Apparently I'm a person who bets on horses because their names have some significance. Not that it helped. I bet on Marina Ballerina in an earlier race, because it was fun to chant when it came around the track: "Ma-rina Ball-er-ina!!" It won me nothing. I bet on A Gentleman Scholar because it was, well, a gentleman scholar. It scratched before the race even started. I bet on a horse named Cougar Cry, because my grade school mascot was the cougar. He crapped out. I looked at the sheet and saw it was a 30-1 shot anyway. Sigh. The best fun was betting on the horse named Pussycat Doll. Again--how can you not bet on that?! But cheering for it was confusing. Instead of horsie-horsie, we both burst simultaneously into "Pussycat Horse! Pussycat Horse! Raowr!!! Run, Pussycat Horse, run!!" People again stared. It won second, so we made some money there.

Oh, and some old man kissed me. It was like a mugging. We were leaving the betting thingy after collecting our winnings, and here he comes charging like some silver back gorilla, and gives me a full kiss on the lips and then takes off, Director/Buddy laughing like a hyena. He must have won, or something. I couldn't even pick him out of a line-up, it happened so fast. Director/Buddy kissed two college boys. I get the drunk old man. I yelled after him, "What, no money?!"

-- Virgil

The Lady Doth Protest Too Much...

I have a confession to make: I'm a work-a-holic.

Sure, I like to bitch and moan about how busy I am, but secretly, deep down inside, I like the hell out of it. Now, I'd like to add this important caveat: it's work that I like to do. Or at least most of the time. I've had plenty of mind numbing jobs before that didn't give me anything but a near ulcer. Working for Immigration was one of those jobs. I took between 80-120 calls a day from people who spoke very little English or some nasty American who loved to start every conversation with "My tax dollars pay your salary..." to which my response was, "such as it is." It got so bad there that to get through it I started keeping categories and checking how often the category was met (another habit I have in life--I do it all the time during class). I made up the categories like, I Lost My Worker's Permit and The World Is Going to End!!, or I'm Illegal, I Just Don't Know It Yet, or I Know He's Illegal, But He's Been Here For 10 Years--Can't He Stay Anyway?, or my favorite: What Do You Mean She Can't Just Move Here From Canada?!? I hated that job, but I still made it my own. I still fought with management. I disrupted meetings with my silly notion that workers are supposed to be allowed to ask questions.

But I'm always on the lookout for more work, more jobs to do, work that I like, anyway. I have two jobs right now--composition instructor and nonprofit. It's not unusual for me to be grading papers until 11 p.m. after I've worked all day, or retooling a lesson plan early in the morning. My days are often spent jumping back and forth between jobs, which creates some traffic hazards. This past semester, I was printing out articles at work for my grad papers and seeing potential tutors in my grad office. I probably don't do either job at 100%. But I can't give it up. I recently tried to assess my grad school work (another job in itself) with all the other work that I'm doing. I'm a fairly decent grad student, I think. I've been told by Important Professors that I'm a great thinker; but my writing style is very pragmatic. I get a lot of complaints about my scholarly "voice". I understand completely, because the first thing my "voice" wants to say is "fuck you."

I know that in order to get better, I'm going to have to read yet more boring academic articles and get the phrasing and style down. And rework the papers I've already written into longer pieces for scholarly publication. Yawn. I've no idea where I'm going to find the time to do that. So I thought it was probably time to reassess my workload. I can't quit teaching, because it's part of my tuition remission package. And it's the field I'm going into, so that would be dumb. And yet, I can't give up the nonprofit thing. I'm not done with it yet. I'm responsible for *everything* here. Have you any idea what a rush that is? I've met the most important people in this region. I've unleashed a tirade on a collected group of community leaders about how they undervalued the neighboring county they purportedly wanted to help--boy, that was fun! I'm not done with this community yet.

My secret goal in life was to set myself up to live "the life of the mind" (whatever that means). I could write, travel, do the photography thing, because I would have enough support to not have to worry about working. Well, I tried that right after college. I couldn't do it. I started a business instead. Now, the thing closed after about 2 years, but I broke even in my first year, which normally doesn't happen for most businesses until the 3-5 year mark. I was pretty proud about that. But I just couldn't help myself. I believe now that even if I had a trust fund and could afford to do nothing but live the life of the mind, I'd get bored quickly and start mucking around with something else; it's almost as though my brain is wired to look for the job in something.

Most people have hobbies they do outside of work. Work is my hobby.

It came to my attention in the last couple of weeks that a really pretty building in a neighboring town just might be up for sale, and it might be cheap. The reason(s) it might be cheap is that part of the roof is caved in and some of the walls need replaced. But upstairs was a beautiful apartment in its time running the length of the building. Downstairs used to be a ceramics shop. It still has the kilns. It also used to be a bank, and the bank vault is still in there. My mind is working in overdrive trying to figure out a way to get this building and get it restored. Job 1: Once it was restored, it would probably sell for 2-3 times what I paid for it. Job 2: It's an historic building, so I could get it on the national register and get $$ for keeping it up; this would involve looking up its history, making sure I understood what the rules were for the outside appearance--a whole art history project! Whoo-hoo! Job 3: Once I realized that the downstairs would make a great little jewelry shop or something, my first thought was to rent it out. Then my second thought was, why let another potential job go to waste? I'm sure my tranny hairdresser buddy needs an outlet for her expensive handbags. Why not set it up and run it by appointment only?

I'm already too busy as it is. I probably don't need to be doing this.
Stop me before I kill myself!

-- Virgil: literally working herself into the grave

P.S. Mad Dog, I'm going to preempt you here and ask you not to give me a lecture on how I shouldn't be ashamed of working because of good old psuedo-capitalist boot-strap values, 'kay?

Public School Rants: Part 2

By special request from impatient readers, I'm back to ranting about public school issues. Something that's always irritated me is when teachers don't keep up with their respective fields. Asking them to keep up with new pedagogies (like methods for making sure that those who learn differently have access to assignments differently) would be to ask them to sacrifice their first born child. But when it's on the blasted 6:00 news, looks like they'd at least have heard of it.

When Dante was getting ready to start the 2nd grade, we were watching the 6:00 news in late summer when this story came on the screen. Boy was he excited to think of ten planets! What would they name it? All kinds of questions. He started school several weeks later, and got treated to an astronomy lesson, which he normally likes quite a bit. I know about what transpired, because I was treated to a verbal onslaught by the offended teacher a day or so after it happened.

Apparently, Dante was sitting in the room with the other kids when the teacher began talking about the planets. "There are nine planets in the solar system," she announces confidently.

"Ten." Comes a small voice from the back. She frowns and starts again.

"There are nine planets in the solar system."

"Ten. Ten planets." Says the peanut gallery. Now, according to her, she's really worked up. At this point in the story, I have my hand over my mouth trying not to laugh in her face.

"There are NINE planets in the solar system!"

"No." At which point he checks out of the conversation, believing the woman to be behind the times, and starts playing "airplane" with his pencil, so I'm told.

"He had no respect for the teacher!" She fumed.

"But there are ten planets. They found another one past Pluto. It was on the news, did you catch it?" I responded. If looks could kill...


Now, of course, Pluto isn't even considered a "real" planet. I wonder if any of the teachers are bothering to drop it from their teaching, explain what it's considered to be now, or if it's just business as usual? Dante has issues with teacher authority anyway (as do I, so it's partly my fault he's the way he is). When teachers don't know what a then 7-8 year old knows, he checks out. I probably would to.

-- Virgil

Idiot Boyfriend Rant

Sister has a new boyfriend whom I had the displeasure of meeting over Derby weekend. Well, I can't say as I actually met him. But he sure as hell met me. Why on the face of the green planet women put up with men like him is beyond me. Ol' boy spent 45 minutes with me on Sunday morning after the Derby, and I'm sure he's still pulling the barbs out of his ass. This was the introductory story I got about him:

He's 27 years old and recently quit his job as a doctor (red flag 1 for being that young and being a doctor, red flag 2 for quitting his job) to become a pizza boy for 3 days a week (red flag 3) who moved back in with his parents (normally, a red flag 4) who pledged his undying love to her after knowing her for about 4 days (red flag 5).

To say my eyebrows were raised would be true only if you could imagine them off my actual head and floating above me. There's no way in hell this boy got through med school to be a doctor and then made the brain-damaged choice to quit his job after only 3 months. No worries, I tell Sister. If he's a fake (and at this point I'm convinced he is), I'll find it out at Derby.

We stayed with Sister, and that Friday night at 3:30 in the a.m., ol' boy calls Sister: he's stranded and drunk off his ass at a bar, can he come over. Sister asks if that's OK with me. No. No, it is not. You have company, there's no place for him to be that isn't already occupied, it isn't fair to the people who are still asleep and have no idea what's going on, and who the fuck calls you at 3:30 a.m. when you have company and his ass could get a cab? She says no for every reason except the last one, which would've been the first reason I'd have given him. He yells something about how she didn't care about him and to fuck off; I heard it from where I was in the room. So Sister is upset. I would've been pissed, but she's upset.

He, of course, backs out on Derby the next day. I was actually pretty glad. Director/buddy and I figured that he was probably picking a fight to get out of having to go and meet me. Saturday night, same thing happens. In the wee hours of the morning fuckface calls to report that he is stranded at his friend's house, can she come pick him up. If you're at your friend's house, you're hardly stranded. He just wants a chauffeur. After much scuffling between Sister and I, she decides she has to go "confront" him and then bring him back. He can't wait an hour or so until decent people are dressed and fed? I'll keep him outside, she says. Whatever. He's your piece of ass.

Well, we're dressed and partially ready when ol' boy waltzes in at 7:30 in the a.m. full of fluff, probably expecting to bowl us over with his "charm," declaring, "I'm the asshole you've heard about." Me and Director/buddy just sit there on the couch looking at him. He points at Director/buddy and asks, "Are you the sister?" To which I replied, "Why, does she seem like the more aggressive one?" And it all went downhill from there. He never shut up. I found out later he was on acid. Which explains everything. It was mostly an exchange of one-liners, where he tried to set himself up as "right", and he got his ass handed back to him.

Haven't you ever made a mistake before?
I wouldn't make a mistake like you.

Boy, you don't smile a lot, do you?
I smile at people who don't treat my sister like shit. I've got great big smiles for them.

I know, I know, I'm the biggest asshole you ever met.
No, you're just in the running for minor asshole of the year. You're a little fish in a great big barrel.

You might as well shut up and listen to me.
Big mistake, fucker. I talk when I want, I listen to what I want, and I walk how I want to. I'm not one of your trained women.

Well, her dog thinks I'm great.
It's a dog, dumbass. It thinks the smell of shit is great, too. Guess that's why you get along so well.

Oh, and my personal favorite:
Don't you believe in Jesus Christ?
I'll leave you to speculate what happened next. Director/buddy was nearly incapacitated just from laughing.

At some point, I thought Director/buddy was going to punch him. Apparently he did too, as when she moved, he flinched. The best parts were when the two of us just sat and laughed uproariously at something stupid he had said. Nothing dulls somebody's brass quite like being made fun of. We took Sister to breakfast and gave her a long and pointless talk about what a sack of trash he was. This is part of the email I got today:

After you guys left on Sunday, I went back home and Fuckface was asleep. I woke him up and told him he can pass out at home and he apologized. We ended up going to get his keys out of his car and I called AAA for him and got all that done. Then we went to a bar on ***** and I paid his way in and bought him a drink. Then he called at 1:30 this morning and came over "just to see me" but ended up borrowing $5 so he could get to work today because he claims he doesn't have gas and hasn't picked up his check.

Great. Why women fall for this crap is beyond me. But I'm to the point now where I just about don't care. It's pretty obvious he's only out for a bed away from Mommy & Daddy, a ride, and a piece of ass.

Take the trash to the dump.

-- Virgil

Who The Hell Is Elektra?

You Are Elektra

There's really no superhero with more style than you. Because who could beat being sexy assasin ninja?

What Superhero Are You?

At least she looks cool. I was thinking I'd come out to be Wonder Woman or something. Hot shorts and a Lasso of Truth would be awesome!

After Wiki-ing (is that going to be a new word?) Elektra, apparently she is supposed to be sort of a play on the Electra of Greek origins and lives a mercenary and violent lifestyle. Her boyfriend was Daredevil (sounds good already!), and she has the ability to mesmerize others and "throw" her mind into others.

Cool!

-- Virgil

Ciao, Ragazzo

Navy Buddy is shipping out in a submarine for his four years of "at sea" navy requirement. He brought all his worldly possessions to my house to store for the next four years, and I spent a lot of time finding places for his things.

Navy Buddy lives pretty light except for one aspect: books. The boy is out of control with books. While putting up his books, I found four copies of Milton's Paradise Lost. Four copies! But more importantly, I found Navy Buddy in those books. Nothing says more about his personality than those boxes of books I just went through.

There's the giant shelf of what I call "sciency" books, which makes him laugh. That's his advanced Calculus books, all his math textbooks, really, his physics pulp that he reads for pleasure like I read James Bond novels. It reminded me that he was only one or two classes away from a math degree when he gave up the pursuit of that and finished out with an Economics degree instead and joined the Navy. I put those on the shelf as well. Including the one for the Labor Economics class we had together, where one of our favorite professors went to Ireland and died suddenly and too young. We were both pretty upset.

There's the shelf of his Isaac Asimov collection. He first got me into the Foundation Trilogy, which I absolutely loved (and which beat out Lord of the Rings for a prize, by the way). I didn't expect to love Sci-fi, but I loved Asimov.

I put up his Ayn Rand book Atlas Shrugged (I stole the rest of his collection four years ago, and it's on my bookshelf now). We once played around with being Objectivists, and then decided that they were a bunch of assholes, at least at the university level. But it was fun when it was new.

I put up his Great Books collection, in hardback. I remember how excited he was to get them, as though all he had to do was read through that collection and "knowledge" would happen. They're awfully pretty.

I put up his little collection of Russian short fiction plus Dostoevsky. Most of that he snagged from the office of my favorite professor who was retiring. I always pouted that they were rightfully mine, as I was the prof's pet, but I guess it all worked out in the end. ;) I had even tagged those books with the year and name of the prof. I'd forgotten I'd done that.

I found his Japanese/English dictionary that I'd bought him for Christmas some years ago. It's in a nice smooth leather cover. It was more expensive than I could afford at the time, but I wanted to get him something nice. I found the rest of his Japanese language books. He was a "FLIE" major when we met--Foreign Language and International Economics. He also studied German (I put those books up, too) language and culture, and is still reasonably decent at it. I hope when he gets out, he considers getting a Master's in Foreign Languages & Literature under the G.I. bill. Languages were always so easy and natural for him.

I found The Sorrows of Young Werther by Goethe, that I'd apparently given over to him after I was done with it some years ago. I had written in it. I had completely forgotten.

I wonder what my own collection of books says about me.

We may have had our differences, but I hope he finds his peace.

-- Virgil

*Snicker*

Ah, the joys and benefits of running your own program...

The nonprofit I work for 25% of the time in the neighboring county has a mobile library that goes to the far corners of the county where there are no satellite libraries; some of the schools don't have a library, either. As if we don't have enough to do, we've recently had to go back through *all* the books in the mobile library and make sure they're entered into the library software (there's such a thing as library software!), tagged, carded, etc. because the two people who operated the mobile library before screwed it all up.

Well, as we're entering the books into the software, Navy Buddy holds up one and says: Who do I say is the author of this one?

It was the Cliff Notes to the New Testament.

Put God, I said. He laughed. No, seriously, enter it as God. It's our library software, we can put in whatever we like.

So now I have a listing that says, "Cliff Notes to the New Testament, by God." I was rooting through the other books, when Navy Buddy looked up from a few more clicks with the software and said in a great deadpan,

"Is this considered fiction?"

-- Virgil

** The listing says "Cliff Notes to the New Testament; author, God; listing, fiction."

Bitch, Please.

There is a special breed of student that irritates the hell out of me. They pop out immediately after grades are posted, and they try to use their newfound powers of critical thinking against you. I'm referring to the B+ student. There is always at least one student in my classes at the end of each semester who believes that I am in great error, and that they are, in fact, a superior writer, rather than the slightly above average thinker I've already judged them to be.

What seemed to be a reasonably responsive and participating student turns into a Machiavelian minor warlord, trying to out-manuever me into admitting they really do have just those few extra points. The victory this student wants to declare is not over her grade alone, but over the entire teaching process--she clearly has more of a mastery of judging quality writing than I do.

Bitch, please.

I can already tell which one it's going to be; past experience has shown me that it's the type-A usually female (the dudes don't challenge my grading--I think they're scared) who thinks this class is a waste of her time; getting a B+ is like getting a backhand across the face.

I mean, obviously, that B+ can keep her from a number of important life goals, like love, peace and understanding. It's worth fighting over, dammit.

Maybe I shouldn't be so harsh on her. After all, everything in her culture tells her that to be less than superior is to fail miserably. Most students either stare at me uncomprehendingly or slackjawed when I tell them that C=average, remember? It should be a compliment to be above average (B). It's tough to be superior. It ought to stand for something.

I ran her grade several times, making sure I wasn't screwing up; I actually expected her to get an A, and when she didn't, it surprised me. I listed out all the things that kept her from getting an A, because I knew she'd ask. I thought I was saving a step, and I probably was. This in spite of the fact that she wrote in several different assignments that she thought she was better than 101 and didn't see why she had to take it, and expected to breeze right through it. A B+ must be particularly deflating.

I expect this one has enough gumption to file for a grade review. Where, I hope, she'll be taken to task. Grade reviews are successful only 3% of the time, and they're usually accompanied by a self-esteem dashing list of all your faults as a writer that prevent you from getting whatever it was you asked for. I know most of the people that serve on the "blind" review. I've had my work judged by half of them. They take themselves very, very seriously.

I can't wait. I'll even make myself a drink and pull up my chair on the 50 yard line.

-- Virgil