Why I hate Lit classes: A essay on teaching for people who aren't completely inane.

I rather enjoy the English language.

So much so I decided to peruse it at my local center for high education. The truth is, I get my jollies off just like any red-blooded Lit nerd. I love adding meaning when there is none to be found. It sends a shot to my loins to multiply the sexual undertones and project my own feeble existence to the characters in the books I read. But, at the core of it I am still rational enough to know that Literature is nothing more than complex entertainment. I understand that Mr. Darcy doesn't really exist. Although, who wouldn't want to wake up to this?

I dare say no one. 

Anywho, I begrudgingly digress.

This knowledge of the entertainment quality found in literature makes sitting through a Modern Lit class almost impossible.

May I ask when it became okay for teachers to assume the worst in their students?

The assumption that young adults either do not have the will power or the life experience to fully understand a piece of writing is not only a gross underestimation but also a little insulting. 

A English professor, who will not be named for fear of douchbaggery to follow, informed me that my fellow students and myself were incapable of fully understanding the text and therefore were simply regurgitating his ideas. 

This is offensive.

Your ideas are not really all that good, supported, or thoughtful.

The years you have spent teaching have taught you nothing other than the ability to leech ideas off of your more intelligent students.

And finally,

Not everything is about sex. Yes, some things are about sex. But somethings are not. Sometimes a knife is just a knife, and sometimes I just want to stab you.

You teach at a community college.

 

Now for something, well, different...

It should go without saying but I am going to say it anyway. Long time, no blog. My schooling and I never were the best of friends and I have yet to perfect the fine art of both doing well in school and having a social life. Early morning work hours don't help much either.

Anyway,

A few weeks ago I was finally able to enjoy a night out with the best people I know; my boys. This is in no way a reference to My Boys, which two of you may have seen. (I count myself as 50% of that estimate.) No, my boys are a trifecta of people I keep at close hand, consisting the Jew, the Gymnast, and the Jack

Not this Jack 

This Jack

 

It is a rare moment indeed when I get to see all of them in the same room but I swear snowflake pigs flew in hell the other day because I was allowed by the grace of Yahweh to not only see them, but spend a prolonged period of time with them sans girlfriends! (Do not read this a my dislike of their female halves, I love their girlfriends, but you know...)

I stand out in the rat pack for two reasons; I am female, and I am single. It puts and interesting slant on things. I tend to be the one pointing out all the attractive young men and they all get to chime in. Most of the time the comments never stray far from, "Go get it!" Of course, much debauchery ensued. It was after a few of these moments that one of my boys (the Jack)pointed out that all of the men I was pointing out...looked the same. In fact, it was declared that I had the most specific taste in men than any woman that he had ever known.

Sigh.

I will be the first to admit that whom I am attracted to doesn't exactly vary. Beard. Check. Boyish pudge. Check. Lumberjack like appearence. Check aaaand check. Zack Galifinakis is one of the most attractive men in the world. 

(So was this guy...

before he slimmed up and shaved his face.) 

I can safely say I have no idea where this infatuation came from. I didn't even know who Paul Bunyan was until I was in my mid-teens. And I live in Nebraska, we don't even have trees. (We are, however the birth place of Arbor Day.)

I guess what I am getting at here is that, given my track record, maybe I should diversify my bonds a little bit. You know, think outside of the beard.

I'll let you know how this goes.

Kaera

Someone tell me I'm not crazy.

Most of the time I don't really care what people do. It can and has been some pretty creepy shit but I keep my mouth shut and prefer not to say a damn thing. As the balding man sitting in the corner of your bedroom would say, watching is more fun anyway. But sometimes I am forced out of my quiet room of judgment and feel obligated to look someone straight in the eye and ask them, "I'm sorry, but what the fuck do you think you are doing?" It isn't something I do to make people feel bad, I do it because there is no sane human being who would look at these actions and NOT say something, at least to themselves. I, however, have no filter in places like this. So what I say to myself gets passed like glorious projectile judgment onto the unsuspecting dumb ass.
Now, I said it takes some freaky shit. But it also takes some stupid shit.
Do NOT ask me what time a particular event is taking place when no less than three feet from my face and one foot from your hand is sign telling you your precious water aerobics class is at 10. This by itself would not get you covered in my verbal vomit but when you then proceed to cover your hands, arms, AND LEGS in the sanatizer that sits right next to that same sign, prepare for something to fly right at you.
I'm sorry, what the fuck do you think you are doing?
First of all you are not going, you are coming INTO the gym. Which means that you are sanitizing your entire body in preparation to go...into the pool. That is filled with chlorine. Doing this with out an ounce of realization does not make it endearing, it makes you stupid.

My last word on politics . . . probably.

I like to think of myself as a somewhat politically minded person.

I don’t blindly identify with either side of the bird but I do like to pay attention to the actions that are being taken by our elected officials. I feel it is my responsibility to figure out for myself what the truth is and not depend on any outside news source to supply information to me.

This means I go out of my way and read the actual document if I feel the need to.

I know.

I know.

I am probably the only person who actually reads these densely packed pieces of legislation. I also realize that this often includes the senators whose soul purpose is to educate themselves and vote according to their constituents wishes. Really, that is the depth of their basic job description. Allow me to redirect before this tangent goes too far in the wrong direction.

Hammer, don’t hurt ‘em.


Anywho, like I said I like to think of myself as somewhat politically minded. So, what my naive little brain cannot possibly wrap itself around is just how it is that people can take perfectly sound political arguments and turn them in to festering pots of personal prejudice and call it commentary. And yes, I am commenting on both sides of the isle.

For me reproductive rights are only a personal issue when you find your self in the position to need them, until then it is constitutional. So yes, I get angry when people say the reason they voted for a particular candidate was because they “share the same belief system” which often translates into “we are both white protestant Christians”, because frankly, your religion has no place in my constitution. And yes, I get angry when people tell me that there is no reason why a mosque should go in around ground zero, because the last time I read the 1st amendment I didn’t notice a “…but Muslims” addendum.
Like I have said before and what you are likely to hear out of me again, the truth lies somewhere in the middle. Both conservative and liberal alike have agendas, they do. The only way to know for sure it is know for yourself.

I have always lived with the idea that there is no way to get everyone to agree on one thing let alone everything, but if you can get people to analyze their own behavior though the eyes of truth instead of posturing for the world you might be able to turn this world into a more tolerant place.

Than again.

4am.

I have to work at 5 in the morning.
This sounds worse than it ends up being.
The truth is your body can get used to just about anything, which includes getting up, Monday through Friday, at an ungodly hour.
I have had this particular shift for about four months which is just enough time for me to start to appreciate the things I experience at this time of the morning. I have decided that my sudden acknowledgment for these sights mean one of two things. Either I am 1) growing up and coming to terms with the reality of a full-time job or 2) I have completely lost my mind. But, as per always I assume that the truth lies somewhere in the middle.  You see, at 4 in the morning Lincoln tends to be at its most beautiful.  I have lived in bigger cities, ones that never sleep, but Lincoln likes it slumber and it is sleeping in. The twenty minutes I spend driving to work allow me just enough time to smell the bread in the bakeries, see the dew cling to the streets, and maybe most importantly, not see a single soul. Don't get me wrong the streets here are never crowded, except, perhaps on Fall Saturdays. Lincoln is, however, the type of town that you are almost always guaranteed to run into someone you know. Which makes Lincoln both, simultaneously, wonderful and annoying. I can get ready to go out at night with the mantra, "I will not see Greg tonight, I will not see Greg tonight", running over and over in my head and undoubtedly Greg will be the first person I bump into. In this way Lincoln doesn't let you get away with anything. But, it is on those drives at 4 in the morning that I feel like I did when my father and I shared a secret as a child. I feel like I am privy to a side of this city that no one else is. I feel as if I am in on a secret that no one else knows. 
I talk almost constantly about moving again. I have gone back and forth between different cities and Lincoln for quite sometime. I move away, get bored, move back, get bored, and move again. But I always come back.

Kaera.

The almost prerequisite "Welcome" post.

Well.
The truth is I am torn.
And not in a pop-music, Natalie Imbruglia kind of way. No, my, uh, tearing (?) is not nearly as emotional. It has more to do with my unwillingness to post an official "welcome". I suppose I should take this time to introduce myself and explain exactly what it is I will be talking about. However, this is surprisingly difficult to do when you, yourself, have no idea what it is that you are doing. That isn't to say that this space has no aim; no direction. Just that that direction will be somewhat free flowing and observational.

For example, as I sit here, I am watching the second season of the X-Files. A show that, to me, was always somewhat of a mystery in my youth. I very distinctly remember my parents, my sister, and I watching these same episodes. Sitting on our, now, long forgotten gray couch, eating popcorn. But I cannot for the life of me remember any of these episodes, the experience is completely new to me. And I sure as hell don't remember Jack Black, Lucy Lu and that Dr. from Law and Order: SVU being on the show. Then again, I was eight.

What I am trying to get at here is that I am just going to talk about what happens to be on my mind. And bring light to otherwise overlooked situations that I find to be of some importance. 

Please, take the time and stop back later. God knows, it can only go up from here.