Frenzy

Well, the 'rents touched down, and I took a few days to travel with them. Things were, as usual, not nearly as bad as I expected they might be. Part of it, I think, was having the ability to identify the source of my animus toward my step-father, so thank you, blog! The other part was probably due to the fact that I consciously told myself, over and over again, that the number of vacations that I have left with my parents is probably limited. They're not geezers or infirm, or anything, but I couldn't help but notice the ways that they're slowing down a tiny bit, need more bathroom breaks. That realization became my mantra when, for instance, we drove across an entire island at 30 miles an hour and read every business and street sign aloud, a la Rainman.

If anything, what I discovered on this trip was that my parents and I share a fundamental habit of mind: thinking that each of us knows best. I, for instance, kept trying to tell them that I didn't want to hit the highway during rush hour near a major city renowned for it's insane drivers. "How bad can it be?" Oh, I don't know...multiple people driving on the shoulder like it's a lane bad? Meanwhile, my stepfather barked at us for taking out a map on a walk to try to assess the best way of getting to our dinner location. "People will know you're not from around here!" He's not wrong, of course, but we happened to be in a suburb of the city where kids routinely pay $50,000 a year to go to college. If someone's going to be mugged (which isn't likely), it's not going to be us in our schlubby clothes. And finally, my mother refuses to take any money and gets all aggressive about it. We're all right, all the time. Except when we're not.

But now I'm home! Glorious home! Let the fantasy summer begin! Oh, except that while I was on vacation with my parents, I sorta bought a house. And now I have a month to sell mine. And it has to go on the market next week.

If you need me, I'll be in a frenzy of painting, cleaning. decluttering, putting on switchplates, painting, gardening, painting, and moving furniture. Keep your fingers crossed...

High Drama

I've spent the past week doing anything but working on my essay, which I at first attributed to deep personal failings. Because, you know, who wouldn't? As of this morning, however, I've been wondering if there is a far more reasonable happenstance to blame.

My parents are arriving tonight for a week-long stay. Now, my parents, as a pair, rarely stay with us. They're people who like hotels, and I'm happy to let them stay in one (honestly, our humble little abode doesn't really compare to a schmancy hotel by the airport. It's just no contest). Furthermore, they're not even going to stay long in the town; as die-hard Westerners, they come to the East to look around. That looking, however, has taken on all sorts of possibilities over the last two weeks: a variety of states, coastal and mountain destinations, big cities and small villages. To protect the innocent (namely me), I'll use Western U.S. geography for an allegory. Imagine if you lived in Phoenix, and you had visitors who were going to stay for a week and wanted to rent a car and see San Diego, Santa Barbara, Catalina Island, Utah's national parks, and maybe Mexico. In theory, they could do it, right? In practice, however, as the local, you imagine that it might be a bit taxing. That's been the on-going conversation with my mother for the past two weeks. Almost every day. For an hour or so at a time. Mr. Fluff's joke is that at breakfast tomorrow, they're going to announce that they want to go to North Carolina.

As I went into emotional overdrive this morning while making oatmeal and planning to clean the house, weed the front lawn, etc., I realized that the issue with their visit and my unfinished essay is not, as you might imagine, the sheer number of hours that I've spent on the phone with my mother. The issue is the way that this instance is entirely representative of a family dynamic that we've inhabited since I was 12. My mother and my step-father were married when I was 14, and were together for years prior to that. Inheriting a growing teenager could not have been a picnic for him, I have no doubt. And while I'm reasonably sure that I made all of the appropriate noises about welcoming him into the family, etc., my guess is that I was less than accepting, and pretty passive aggressive about it (because that's how I roll, yo.).

It's always been the case, I think, that my mother has had to negotiate between him and me, that we have little ability to communicate with one another, and that each of us demands that she put our needs and desires first. Mr. Fluff, always the Freudian, pointed out to me this morning that regardless of the biology, it's a pretty classic Oedipal conflict here (without the need for the penis, of course). And I can acknowledge that, even as I recognize that there's a slight twist: I think there's a good deal of anxiety on the part of my step-father, as well, that he might be the one forced to separate from the mother. I think that it's incumbent upon me to realize that, and yet it's difficult to do when his needs or desires condition everyone else's actions (case in point: as of yesterday, my mother cancelled reservations at City A so as to spend more time near City B, because she was pretty sure that that's what he wanted, although it had not yet been approved. Twelve hours til touchdown, plan still in progress...). There's something else in the mix too, that I can't quite wrap my brain around: my step-father was the only adult in my adolescence who was deeply invested, I think, in proving me wrong, or making sure that I was punished. He was the one who questioned my motives, read my diary, grilled me, etc. All of which, of course, put my mother in the enviable position of having to defend me, or to carefully consider whether he had a point (which, to be fair, he sometimes did). He may or may not have consciously thought that this was his contribution to parenting. It's also the case, however, that these may have been attempts to tip the balance of my mother's regard and affection toward him and away from me. Which is a pretty shitty thing to do to a 14 year old kid. To say that there's some lingering resentment and habit of suspicion, then, would be an understatement.

In other words: I think part of the trouble focusing on the writing this week has been because I was cranking through all of the turmoil that this situation creates, and they haven't even shown up yet. And all of this is a crying shame, because I so enjoy seeing my mother, and to the extent that it's possible, I think my step-father has attempted to radically revise his relationship with me. What that might suggest as a way forward, however, eludes me, except to say that I suspect its the case that I need to find a way to communicate my feelings directly to him, without involving my mother as the third, mediating party. In other words: I think I need to be the person that my 14 year old self couldn't be.

Maybe that's the point at which the essay will miraculously write itself.

Get a Job!

So for weeks, nay months now, I've been whining and complaining about work. "It's too much!" "It's too hard!" "I don't have time to think, or read for pleasure, or do anything I want to do!" [Cue the orchestra of the world's tiniest violins.] So it was with great pleasure and anticipation that I was looking forward to coming to my parents' house. My plans included: eating, sleeping, watching movies, eating, and perhaps some shopping. Then maybe some high-intensity laying around.

So I've been here for three days, and I've done all of the above. I've done the laying around bit at least 4 or 5 times. I finished the new Joshua Ferris book. I've read the paper. I saw the incredibly mediocre Indiana Jones movie (it was my parents' pick, y'all). I've eaten God knows how many 3,000 calorie meals (thus precipitating the laying around).

And now I'm bored.

What's up with that, my friends?!! I thought I'd love this kind of torpor! I'm all about the laziness and the time-wastage and the doing nothing!

But damn, I'm bored. Who knew I'd miss being productive? How is that possible? Yesterday, in fact, I found myself wanting to get home to DO things (work in the yard, get started on my article, etc.).

If y'all see the pod that my real self is stored in, feel free to break me out of it, will you?

Post-Parental Visit Post

My mother, who arrived at 1 a.m. on Jan 2, just got on a plane in Urbania to return to the city of neon. I think I can say that this is the first time that I've hosted my mother in my own house. What a way to start the year!

I believe that I've blogged about Mom before, but I'm too lazy to go and find it. The skinny is that my parents divorced when I was 7 or so, and Mom and I spent my formative years together as a unit. Because of that, we've developed a (probably unhealthy) attachment to one another; only her retirement job and my increased work load have interrupted our usual two phone call a week habits. Because this is the first time Senor F. and I haven't gone home for the holidays, she graciously (with much cajoling and trepidation on her part) agreed to come east for the New Year. It's been bitterly cold here for the first week of the year, and my poor mother--born in a tropical state--survived it with hardly a whimper. It surprises me not at all that she is a great guest, willing to do whatever kind of crap has to be done (case in point: the first day she was here, I had to go and fix the iced lock on Senor's car---he couldn't get the door to close and had to go to a meeting). She somehow managed to do all of this with much better humor than I, and then took me to lunch and the mall. (If you ever wondered where my eating/shopping habits come from, look no further).

This was a great way to begin the year, because it serves as an object lesson about the delights of generosity. My mother is really ridiculous in what she wants to give. You know the old "fighting over the bill" routine? She's got it down to a science. I've begun to think of it as a shtick that we perform for waiters, grocery store check out people, sales people at the Sephora. In the height of the "no, I'll get it!" lunacy, she raced to the door of the gas station, trying to pay the attendant before I could swipe my car. While I have to fight her tooth and nail to pay for things, it's also useful for me to remember that she wants to give us stuff (whether it be food or experiences or durable goods); it's an act that she associates with my grandparents when they came to visit her. I think she sees it as one of the acts that will solidify her role as elder, which she's all too willing to take on.

Since she's both speedy and has a grip much akin to the Kung-Fu G.I Joe one of old (play the game here!), my job is to find things she'd enjoy and doesn't get to do at home, e.g., locate new restaurants at which my step-father would never eat; take her to museums, figure out when her television shows are on, schedule a hair cut, etc. I know it doesn't sound like much, but my mother lives for other people. A lot. And so to give her the chance to do something she normally wouldn't allow herself the time to do is not a small act, I think. So while it's not monetary, this is my form of reciprocal generosity.

So in addition to the as yet unnamed year ahead [FrenchieFoo suggests "moderation" crossed with "fulfillment." Modfillment? Fulleration? Oooh, I like the second one!!], I think I'll try to focus on how to be creatively generous. And not just to my mother. Although she's not to be excluded!!

Madre de Teach-o

I may just have to face the fact that it is physically impossible for me to work on an article two days in a row unless there is a large, loin-cloth wearing, whip-wielding Viking standing behind me. (You know, I just spent five minutes on Google images looking for a picture of that. Why can't I find it? Doesn't everyone have that mental image of the big bald oily guy whipping the rowers?! From whence does that image arise? On another note, this may explain why I don't work so efficiently...) The only other way I get stuff done is when I have the deadline equivalent of the whip-wielding guy; or, as my dear dissertation director said once, "march or die!" And that occasionally occurs, but not so much. Not right now, anyway. Instead, I've been hanging out in my office talking to my mother---because God knows I couldn't talk to her from the comfort of my own home! Does anyone else's parents call them at the office?!

Article, shmarticle.

My mother taught elementary and middle school for 30 years. And yes, she's still largely sane. Now that she's two years into retirement, however, she does have far fewer migraines. Possible causal connection? Go figure. Suddenly, she's been approached by the department head of her local U. because he's recruiting retired, veteran teachers to teach methods courses to education majors. I love this for so many reasons: on a social level, I think it's dandy that teachers who lived to tell the tale can impart some of their wisdom to new teachers. I've often wished that I could bring my mom in to talk to the education majors in my classes. Often, they seem so sweet and idealistic, and I just want them to get a shot of practical and kindly advice that won't crush them, but will give them a sense of what they're signing on to do. There also seems to be a significant intergenerational benefit here; like the social security system, those arenas where people cross generational boundaries a bit can act as community glue. When I was twenty, the only people I knew that were retired were my grandparents. It feels like I could have developed some ways of interacting with non-Gen-Xer's if only I'd had some means of accessing them. And wouldn't that have helped me in my current job! Up yours, alma mater that denied me access to old people!

On a more personal level, I love the idea of my mom teaching college students. So much of what I know about teaching I've learned from her. Somewhere down the line, she mastered that whole: I like and respect you as a person, but I won't accept this behavior. (I don't think I'm confusing this with her parenting style, but there may indeed be significant overlap.) It would be so easy to get mad at students (especially middle school students!), write them off, think that they're stupid, or behavioral problems, etc., but instead, she was always looking for some way of integrating them into the class. My mom also has this deep-seated devotion to student learning, even in the face of oppressive state and national standards. I don't know many other teachers of 13 year olds who would hold to the idea of discussing the Civil War with 40 of them, but she did. Five periods a day, for years. (The mere thought of that gives me the willies.)

The even more personal reason that I'm into it is because I think it would be great for my mom. Like any good second generation Asian American, she has an awe about higher education. She likes to give me the speech about how great it is that I'm a professor, that I have a PhD., that I know all this stuff. (To which I say, "hah." And then again, " HAH!") I think that ingrained belief that scholars are to be respected blinds her to how much she knows from so many years of teaching. As if somehow, experience can't possibly compare to all the book learnin' I've done. As if somehow, teaching history to 13 year olds and not murdering a single one of them doesn't qualify you for sainthood. Or, as she said to me today when we were talking about this: "You have all this practice knowing what you think about something. I don't know what I think about things. I'd have to do a lot of research." To which I replied: "Or, there's the times when I assign a book that I like just to see what happens."

But here was the clincher. I asked her what she would tell new teachers just starting out. Here was her reply (and it's paraphrased, of course):

Oh, well I'd tell them that the most important thing is survival. I mean, you can have the best intentions in the world, but you can't let it be your whole life. The school system is so political now; you have to be able to give them what they want while holding on to some semblance of what you know is learning.

How great is that? That's my mom. She rocks the free world and the developing nations.