Since I'm currently working on a challenging new piece, I've decided to post this blog entry from February 2011.
When the first method you go to is not your own >So, I’m working on an essay revision this week. It’s one that I’ve taken entirely too long to do, but, in my defense I have three – somewhat – valid reasons to situate against the procrastination and fear of rejection that has kept me from finishing this. The first concerns the figure about whom I write. She’s shown up in my dreams lately. Twice. The first time she appeared as a spectator in the crowd of a basketball game. As I walked in to take my seat, she stood up and asked me if I was finished. No pressure? Unfortunately, all I had was excuses as an answer. Not cool. In the second dream, we were a team in some kind of scavenger hunt. She seemed really cool in that dream; not intimidating at all. After the second dream, I decided that I have to stop working on writing that involves figures near bedtime lest Madea or T.D. Jakes show up in my dreams. Spooky. A side note though. My dreams about this figure has led me to see how much I value the approval of folks that I consider elders or mentors. I won’t go so far as to call myself a people pleaser, but gaining the approval of the folks I work with and or respect has always been important to me. I want to do right by them. These tendencies are inspire and complicate my work. I always see rhetorical activity at home, so I look at the teachers, preachers, and figures that I’ve come into contact with the most as the site of my work. I aim to figure out what they’re doing as a way of honoring them; a show and tell kind of gesture that says to the field “see how neat the rhetorical practices are of Black women teachers, preachers, blogs,” etc. The challenge in being a Black feminist is that I know I have to critique at home and that’s the work I’m still trying to do. Where this figure is concerned, the challenge feels great because I’ve seen what happens when people have tried and failed to incorporate her work into histories adequately. They get spanked. The second thing that keeps me from finishing it is my sense that I’ve sent this piece to the wrong journal. There was a notorious backlog for the journal I wanted to send this piece to when I first considered submitting it. At the time I was a grad student preparing for the job market and didn’t think I could spare the time involved with submitting to that journal, so I sent it to my second-choice journal thinking that I’d receive feedback faster. I did. Ironically, one of the readers instructed me to send the piece to my first choice journal because the content of the piece speaks directly to an important historical moment within my field. Revising for the second journal has been muy difficil because it has forced me to shift my thinking about this piece. I’d like it to be a recovery of a figure’s rhetoric that makes a critique of the disciplines historical memory and the narrow ways Black women’s activists work is taken up recognized and incorporated into contemporary scholarship. To make it fit for the second journal, I’ve had to think more about purpose and what understanding the rhetorics within Black women’s activism does for broader understandings of the rhetorical campaigns of historically marginalized communities. Totally different argument, right? I think the second argument can be really important… if I can finish it. These two challenges lead me to my third. The framework I want to use to analyze this figure’s rhetoric is so heavily influenced by another scholar’s analytical model that I wonder what, aside from looking at a different site, am I doing that’s different. What do you do when the first method you go to is not your own? How much should you attribute? I guess you go back to work. I’ve said enough here for now. I have spoken
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I posted the picture to the left on my instagram account a few weeks ago. I took it on a rainy Sunday night at the Starbucks closest to my house. There are Starbucks everywhere in the Northeast. The only coffee shop that outnumbers the chain is Dunkin' Donuts, the "H*& of the Northeast" as I like to call it. The caption for this instagram picture was "fresh out of paragraphs." That night the statement was true. Working on a recommendation letter had exhausted me, not because I felt I had done anything physically exerting that day - it was a Sunday - but because I just didn't have anything else to say. And yet, I felt like I had to go on. I knew who the audience would be. I knew that this student needed this position. I wanted to help them in the best way I could. Writing is so frustrating at times. Some of the other posts I have included on this revived blog talk about my expansive understanding of writing. The irony is that while I love to say that I am a writer, that I teach writing and that I work for an institution where many forms of writing are recognized, my struggles are real. I have SO much to say sometimes that I don't say anything at all. Scope! And then, I hear things like this: "You have revisions to finish!" "That's not a REAL article" "Will it give you a CV line entry." "Does anyone even care about this?" My inner critic is relentless. Two things are helping me mute this critic. The first is my Audible account. I'm currently listening to Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. It seems like common sense that the experience of listening would be quite different than reading but I marvel at how differently I understand her book when I hear the dialog in it or he exposition. As a listener, I recognize the nuances of her craft much better. Adichie does so much with characterization. In one sentence she gives some of the most intimate and insightful aspects of a character's personality. Obinze is legible to me. Auntie Ugu seems like someone I know. I even see in D.K. the younger version of some of my students and Adichie's description of him makes me think about my own assumptions when teaching students that were born in Africa but have spent their whole lives in America. Although I wonder how long her sentences actually are, her prose inspires me. What would happen if more academics listened to the prose of creative writers? Surely our rhythm would shift. I want to write in this more conversational way (hence this post). This book's popularity is well-deserved. The other shaking shift is my start in a well-known national bootcamp for faculty. Because a number of my academic friends have completed the program, I was excited to begin. Last Sunday night was the first group call and just as I was sitting there listening and contemplating opening a Word Document to ediit something (who knows what it was), the moderator asked us not to multi-task. It was as though she were sitting right there with me in the home office. One of the lessons I took away was about consistency. Accountability is a good thing. In my small group of strangers, I feel a greater need to report my finished work. Because of this, I've made the effort to go to the library everyday even though I am visiting my parents this week. Arriving by 9 a.m has some perks. One of them is that I am remembering that this is what I used to do, before the year of exams, before the dissertation, before the twenty-five mile commute to campus, before starting at the university where everyone on your side of the hall keeps their doors closed and the construction outside your window has not ceased in three years. This is what I will do. This is what I do. Do. ~I have spoken~ “Writing is the greatest faith based initiative in the earth. What determines a writer is your ability to keep your fear and doubt down and your faith and hope up.” ~Junot Diaz
“Whether we think of ourselves as researchers, composition theorists, creative writers, linguists, rhetoricians, or historians, many of us not only teach writing but also participate in various writing practices. We all do language. That is our greatest strength, and it is what makes what we do so much bigger than how we draw the disciplinary boundaries around both our field and ourselves. As doers of the word who teach others to do what we do, we have obligation to do it bigger and to reach every place and everyone we can reach.” ~Gwendolyn Pough, “It’s Bigger than Comp/Rhet: Contested and Undisciplined” The unfortunate theft of my ipod and GPS last month has become a good thing. At the time, discovering that some mofo had went into my truck and riffled through my console in order to get my GPS, its cord, and my ipod made me feel vulnerable. I was definitely in a new place. Replacing those items – though costly – has introduced me to several discussions about writing that are helping me expand my vision of what I can do in this new position at my new university. I splurged on the replacement ipod, purchasing a slightly used one that holds my entire itunes library. The additional space allows me to create all types of playlists and download numerous podcasts. My workouts are better for it. While huffing off the calories, I now listen to Brene Brown, NPR’s “Fresh Air” and a British NeoSoul podcast. My outlook is also better for it. The inspiration I felt when I heard Junot Diaz make the statement that appears as the first epigraph reminds me of the way writing used to be for me.. I wrote short essays because I was so excited about the way I was learning to understand my spirituality that I wanted to share it. Ideally, I thought I was leaving some kind of memory to my students and family. Marketing the book or becoming some kind of spiritual guru was never a goal for me. I just wanted to share my story in written form. If I had the courage, I could have easily shared those same stories in a different form.. That’s another discussion though. The memoir form for me is a place a discovery. I’ll never forget the impact of the essay I wrote for my Creative Nonfiction class when I was getting my M.A. I had been reading about cognitive functions in composition at the time and the term “Cognitive Dissonance” resonated with me because it described that process of seeing things happen with your eyes, but not processing those events for what they were. I used that term as the title for an essay I wrote about watching the effects of my aunt’s battle with MS but not really seeing that she was dying. I struggled with that piece and went to my workshop proud of my ability to articulate that event. When my classmates told me how palpable my pain was and my instructor left the classroom crying because my writing made me think of the sister she had just lost, I came to see the power in telling my own story. I didn’t relish in making my readers cry or laying bear the pain of my loss. For me, that class taught me that writing enabled me to make sense of and name the things in my life. It taught me that what I’d gone through could produce greater understanding. I never felt more like a writer than I did then. After that class, I pushed myself to take the few essays I had started writing on the insights I was gaining and turn it into a collection. I simply wanted people to see what I had come to see, to learn or unlearn without feeling like I was selling something. I have yet to feel like my writing holds the same purpose. My work, as Pough says in the second epigraph, is bigger than comp/rhet. I can give more to my students, my community, and myself when I think of all the ways I know to write. I'm on really rich soil.. It's a good thing. ~I have spoken~ Yesterday morning, “C” called with some disturbing news. He had gone to FB to post a birthday message on one of his good female friend’s page and discovered that she – “A” – had passed away.
She was only 33. To say that the news was shocking is an understatement. Even though “A” was diabetic and was still grieving the loss of her father two years ago and the grandmother who raised her just months ago, people close to “A” said she had turned things around. She had recently returned from a trip to Las Vegas and, aside from telling people that she felt really tired, she seemed to be in good spirits. Seemed is the key word. “A” has been on my mind a great deal today because even though she was a very out-going person, somehow, with all those people around her, no one knew how ill she was or how dark things had become in her life. As I am treating this nasty case of acute bronchitis and an ear infection this weekend, hearing about “A” has made me think more about why nets work. While we live in an increasingly digitized age where social networking has taken the place of face to face interaction, I, personally, need a network for several reasons. Accountability In undergrad, I developed a group of girlfriends who became my besties. We lived in the same dorm, partied together, celebrated each others birthdays, and stood by with four-letter insults and other more destructive tools when we had to deal with tired, no good significant others.. We became women together and after college we stood together in wedding parties and the funerals of our loved ones. It’s a good thing that I don’t need to call them regularly to know that they care, because I haven’t been the best with calling. Fortunately, I know that within a few minutes of talking to them, I’ll be reminded of the convictions I sometimes lose sight of in this work and a bigger purpose in my life that they, as my sisters, know. They keep me accountable even though miles separate us. Visibility Even though I’m an only child and find some comfort in daily periods of introspection and isolation, I could have never prepared for the isolation of graduate school. I was lucky, depending on how you define it, to have two fellowship years where I could be isolated with my thoughts. Had it not been for my graduate network of scholar besties, I would have stayed in my house and been consumed with my thoughts. Through their insistence that I come out with them for coffee, trips to the gym, dinners, or whatever else, they kept me visible in the world and made me remember that someone’s expecting to see me. I needed that then. I hope I did the same for them. Priorities Apparently, the solitary academic life can become worse when you get into the professoriate. I have a small – as in two or three people – network that I deal with on my current job and I’m not happy with that number, but I’m grateful for them. Had it not been for my colleague/neighbor/friend “P” noticing how sick I was this week and insisting that I go to the doctor, I wouldn’t have gone. I would have told myself that it’s the end of the semester and that my students need to more help than they should need at this point. “P” helped me prioritize my own wellness and I’m glad she did. I’ve been an introvert and I can get lost in my thoughts. Sometimes those moments help me think deeply enough to figure out the things I’ll teach or write. Other times, I need to be guarded against that inclination to be alone. My networks work because they are that guard. ~I have spoken~ When I left for work yesterday morning, gas was $3.10 for regular unleaded at the station closest to my house. When I came home last night after my evening class, it was $3.16. Today when I came home from work, it was $3.30.
Why is this ironic? And cruel? 1. I live twenty miles from work. 2. I drive an SUV. Let’s hope for gas prices to drop. This week, I started very preliminary talks with my committee about defense dates and things of that nature. I should have started these talks sooner, I know. The process has always seemed like a mystery to me since so many of my program’s graduates opt out of walking in the May commencement ceremony. I have quite the road to travel to get to May 14 and 16th, but I’m determined and things happen when I get that way. Ask the folks at my alma mater. When I discovered that the English department had stopped holding its own departmental graduation ceremony and no one would hand me my diploma, I began the campaign to revive the tradition. Something about the idea of finishing a degree – being the first in my family, mind you – getting a robe, and not having anyone say my name didn’t sit with me. After two months of petitions, meetings, and several persuasive talks with my classmates, we learned that the English department would hold its first graduation ceremony in over 15 years. at Centenary United Methodist Church, Saturday, May 13, 2000. There must have been 20+ members of my family in the audience. It was a very good day.
When I learned that I could march in graduations as a high school teacher, I walked in every ceremony I could. Hell, I would have walked in other school’s ceremonies if they’d let me. The same sense of pride determination that I felt when I graduated the first time multiplied when I became a teacher. Something about putting on my robe again, seeing my students in theirs, seeing the parents with tears in their eyes, hugging my students, and hearing the band makes me well up with… pride. Some people are saps for weddings and things like that. I’m a sap for graduations. There’s no time for sappiness now. Pages are left to be written and revised, visits conducted, classes taught, and conferences attended. I just thought I’d indulge myself for a moment. Thanks for listening. ~I have spoken~ It was on a Sunday ten years ago when my phone rang in the wee hours of the morning. Since this was the pre-cell phone era, I rushed to answer before the ring woke up my parents. It was my cousin, frantic.
“Mika! Biggie’s Dead! He’s dead!” “What?” “He was shot. He’s dead!” My cousin was upset. I was tired. When I got up a few hours later, I tried to process the news and only succeeded at making the obvious connection between Biggie’s murder and the murder of Tupac’s months earlier. My resolution for that day: buy Life After Death as soon as possible. ************************** I’m currently teaching a class on cultural appropriation and figures like the Notorious BIG come up in our class conversations often. I point to Biggie and Tupac as evidence of how the hip hop culture is a fitting example of the tug between the “takeover” and the “crossover,” or the ideas of appropriation and assimilation. My students say that music and art belongs to everyone. How can you attribute an artistic practice to a culture, they ask. How can you say Elvis appropriated Rock and Roll when he simply took an existing form and made it better? My challenge is to remain neutral and many days I fail in doing so. But while this process frustrates me like nothing else I’ve ever taught before, it’s stretching me too. I believe cultural appropriation exists, but when I look at what initiates a person into a culture, I have to reflect on my own relationship with hip hop and figures like Biggie. If I’m honest with myself, I can admit that at 18, when Biggie was murdered, I wasn’t a true hip hop head. I didn’t consume hip hop, live hip hop, and breathe hip hop like others I knew because I couldn’t. Not having cable and growing up in a rural environment, I couldn’t go to live performances and the closest I came to a cypher was when I saw two boys exchange rhymes in a heated fashion (it wasn’t a battle) on a school bus one afternoon. What I’d always had though was a love for music, and especially good beats. So while the beats Brand Nubian, Special Ed, Queen Latifah, Monie Love, Yo Yo, and others played in the background of my youth, that’s where they stayed, in the background. But there was something about Biggie. Somethin’ bout Christopher Wallace made me buy Ready To Die twice. Once because I’d heard a song called Juicy and knew his flow over that Mtume beat was something so different that I had to hear more. And once again after that tape was stolen by kids in my high school parking lot who heard me pumping these lyrics every morning when I got to school: I know how it feels to wake up fucked up. Pockets broke as hell. Another rock to sell. People look at you like you’s the user Selling drugs to all the losers, mad buddah abuser But they don’t know about the stress-filled days Baby on the way. Mad bills to pay. That’s why you drink tanguaray, so you can reminisce And wish you wasn’t living so devilish. Bastards stole my tape. Biggie was the first hip hop artist whose lyrics encapsulated a moment of my life. To this day, when I hear Everyday Struggle or Me and My Bitch, as problematic as those lyrics are, I am taken back to a moment of my youth when the beat and the words meshed. I went beyond listening for beats, to listening for content. And from content I went to context. If I had to guess, it’s this journey from beats, to content, to context that marked my first steps into beginning to learn and appreciate and claim an influence from the hip hop culture. Those were good times. ~I have spoken~ In her essay, “Smarts: A Cautionary Tale,” Valerie Lee writes:
“Historically, African Americans often have shaped knowledge from different interpretive frameworks. Most academic units have written and shared notions of what excellence in teaching, research, and service means. Prior to the times when scholars of color presented their calling cards at the academy’s door, faculty memberss were pretty smug about the meaning of such words and phrases as “canon,” “rigor of thought,” “cutting edge,” “the educated mind.” Contrastingly, a survey of African American folk stories and literature reveals a distinction between education andedumacation. The space betweeen the two concepts is a contradictory space, as most complex spacces are. That is, even as most African American communities have praised literacy and education as the way to freedom and success, there has always been another discourse that says you have to watch out for white folks’ education, derisively called edumacation. In Ebonics, the extra syllables indicate poposity, extremity, as when Langston Hughes’s character, Jesse B. Simple, calls worry “worryiation.” Worry can stress you out: but worriation can kill you.Edumacation is academe’s corruption of smartness. Edumacation is what folks at home think you are getting when they start asking, ‘Now how long have you been in school? What degree did you say are you working on now? ‘Edumacation calls into question many of academe’s ironclad canons” (Royster and Simpkins, Calling Cards: Theory and Practice in the Study of Race, Gender, and Culture, 98). Reading this passage makes me murmur “Amen.” I’m fortunate to have a family that has always recognized my academic ambition, something Mom and Dad observed when I jumped out of bed on my first day of school and assumed the school bus would be picking me up within the next ten-minutes. They don’t question me alot, at least not to my face, and I am grateful that I don’t have to contend with verbal insinuations that I’m here getting a Ph.D to get “edumacated.” But lately, I’ve been having my own fears about getting too “edumacated”? I don’t have these fears often, but lately I’ve been having an eerie sense about my ultimate “arrival” at a Ph.D. What if I get there and I don’t like it? Sure that day is far away. But since I’m nearing the end of course work and trying to prepare myself for that transition, thoughts like these have began to linger. See, I’ve always taken breaks between degrees, dipping in and out of the academy, per se. After undergrad, I took a job as a Proposal Writer, and within two months I knew that wasn’t my career. That following year I’d started an M.A program, and within a month of beginning, my job down-sized my position. So I started teaching, and loved it for a while. The combination between theory and practice was great. The kids were a blessing. But even as I was plugging away at my masters, I knew that the high school classroom would not be my career-home because I wanted more, and the college classroom seemed to offer it. These split appointments between the academy and the career world worked well for me because any time I wanted to leave one dimension I could take refuge in the other. But now I’m plugging again, working towards the carrots of completing course work, exams, a dissertation. Working towards the carrots of publishing an article, giving a good conference paper, creating and teaching classes that are functional and true to my scholarly interest. Working towards the carrots of spending a Saturday night somewhere other than my office. I’m trying to try savor how much better I feel this year than I did my first year, and still trying not to stress about “staying on time” or focusing more on the forest than the trees in front of me. Instead, I’m trying to focus on the pages of my life instead of the chapters, or the whole story. But seeing the pages are tough when you’re a carrot-type of gal like me. And really tough when you go home and see your friends and family “living”. So tough in fact, that I look down at my books sometimes, or out the window at this week’s snow and I wonder, will my carrots taste good? ~I have spoken~ I must be a glutton for punishment. Seminar paper season is around the corner and although I have narrowed down my topics, I anticipate some difficulty. My project for Contemporary Rhetoric is one that I look forward to and feel an important passion about. Given the task of researching an important contemporary figure to the field of rhetoric, I chose Geneva Smitherman. While working on my masters, I became interested in her discussions of African American Rhetorical traditions. Since then, I’ve come to understand her contributions to the field I claim, her continued work to promote language equality, her fire and passion. She’s bad ya’ll. It’s surprising to me that there is so little scholarship about her. Someone needs to do the work.
It’s that need that stresses me out. What do you do when you feel strongly about a topic or a figure that few people seem to be talking about? What if you identify with them? If you’ve met them? Respect them? I know I can only do so much in a seminar paper, but given that I am arguing for her consideration and recognition within the vast field of “contemporary rhetoric,” the pressure I feel to make the most compelling argument is high. I’ve got to bring it. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m too passionate. I don’t know. I just know I feel an extra responsibility with this paper. And here’s where the gluttony comes in. My other course for the semester is Ancient Rhetoric. I looked forward to this class, welcoming the chance to read the ancient texts. It’s been tough though. I’ve struggled with some of these texts. After speaking with my professor, I came up with a potential idea for a paper, and after I spent all night Wednesday night researching it, I’ve decided to research Aeschines and Rhodian rhetoric. Why would I pick a topic that no one has heard of? Why wouldn’t I just write a paper about Augustine, or Quintillian? I asked myself that as I woke up at 4 am to finish the proposal. Why Tamika? Why do you keep picking these types of projects? Well, in this case, I found Rich Enos’s Article on Rhodian rhetoric to be one of the most compelling pieces I’ve read so far. My problem is that there are no records about Rhodian rhetoric. Even though there are a few scant references to it, Rhodian rhetoric was overshadowed by Athenian rhetoric. I do know that Aeschines, the sacred orator, opened a school at Rhodes, and I may be able to find information about his life, but other than that I’ve got to look at the one figure that seemed to speak the most about Rhodian rhetoric; Cicero. Isn’t fate cruel?. But, because I think it Rhodian rhetoric might have some kind of influence on our concept of Cultural Rhetoric, I am interested in it enough to try. When I look at the types of projects I try to undertake, I wonder if my colleagues are as ambitious. Are you? Cause if it’s just me, it will be a long November. ~I have spoken~ For the last two days, I’ve spent the afternoons at Panera Bread Company. In addition to the free Wi-Fi and the Asiago Cheese bagels, I’ve found Panera pretty conducive to studying, especially on sunny days when I need to get out of the house. Since I slept in this morning, I threw on a typical grad student outfit (oversized sweatshirt, sweatpants, and glasses) and headed out. When I got here the place was packed, and for the first time I had to settle for one of those table/booth combinations. There was a free tabooth near the door, but since someone had left their newspaper and coat on the seat, I had to slide a few things over before I sat down. Whatever, I thought, and slid the stuff over, unpacked my bags, and got to work. The elderly couple sitting across from me just stared.
About three hours later, I was still working, toiling, struggling, sweating. I wish I knew what it was about Cicero’s text that challenges me so. He is a verbose writer, but that’s par for the course with these ancient texts. I understand that. Still, something about the elaborateness of the dialogues in this text exhausts me. Granted, I have been sick some this semester, and at points, finishing my readings has been really difficult. But damn, I feel better today than I have in a long time and Cicero is still humbling me. I’m a little nervous. Shouldn’t reading become easier in your second year? About a half-hour ago, I was coming to the end of book two, and wading through Antonius’ discussion of arrangement and memory when I must have dozed off. I woke up to the sound of a Panera worker coming through the door beside me and a fresh batch of senior citizens looking at me. Since I was thirsty, I went to get a drink. When I got the counter, the Panera worker that passed my tabooth earlier was working the register. I stepped forward to order my drink, and after I said “A large fountain drink, please,” he just looked at me and said, “it’s free.” “Free? Are you sure.” “Yeah, you look like you can use it.” Damn. Did I look that exhausted and mentally spent? Did he see my copy of De Oratore and take pity? Don’t get me wrong, free is still free, and I’m grateful for that good samaritan. But damn Cicero. Damn. ~I have spoken~ I’m still recovering from my first trip to 4Cs, but overall the conference was a great experience. My paper “You don’t know me: the implications of ethnography and ‘thin slicing’ within the multicultural American classroom on the field of composition studies” was well received, despite the fact that it has an anti-ethnography tint to it (I’m still working through those issues).
I saw a number of fascinating panels, most notably Singing, Preaching, and Teaching in a Strange Land: Composing Community and Building Coalitions through African-American Religious Language as Literacy Practices which featured three dynamic scholars whom I hope to work with in the future. Who knew you could have “chuch” at 4Cs? I suffered temporary paralysis when I saw Geneva Smitherman checking into the hotel, Keith Gilyard at the bar, Jacqueline Jones Royster at breakfast, Carol Mattingly on the elevator, and Beverly Moss at a buffet. Fortunately, each one’s warm demeanor shook me out of my first-year state of awe. I saw Chicago for the first time, and I’m eager to go back. I laughed so hard with D, E, and even AB. I was not invisible. (contact me if you want to know what that means). I met some fine scholars with whom I hope to stay in contact. I learned that there can be peace in any situation. Because I missed my 9 am flight Saturday morning (as well as the 1 pm, 4 pm, and 6 pm flight) I was told that I would not be able to leave Chicago until Monday. When I finally opted for the 14 hour train ride home and began the trip from the airport to th train station, I met two nice strangers that helped me navigate through the journey. Jean, who was also in town for a conference, rode with me on the city train and talked with me about her work. Cam, an impressive young college senior who will be working on Wall Street in the fall, personally escorted me from the city train to the station, ate dinner with me, and walked me to the line. Since I’m always leery of strangers, I was very thankful for them. As I rode the train Saturday night, serenaded by the tunes on my beloved i-pod, a peace fell over me – one so strong that despite the tragicomic elements of my day, I was pleased. And so… I can’t complain. Fifteen minutes ago, as I sat engrossed in The Rhetorical Tradition, the little voice in my head started to say, “Grey’s Anatomy’s coming on.” I shook it off and tried to immerse myself in the concept of rhetorical eloquence. It didn’t work. I caved. Now I’m in front of the t.v.
My favorite surgical interns just participated in a hot-dog eating contest and Christina won. When Izzy yelled go, she ate the hot dogs first and then poured water over the buns so they would dissolve. Within seconds she’d cleaned her plate and blew her competition away. Arguably, Christina did cheat, but there’s something about her strategy that I admire. I’ve been struggling with developing a reading strategy this semester and I’m nervous because I’m only a week into the new semester. Last semester was tough, but at least I developed momentum. My reading strategy was intense, all consuming, and overwhelming, but I got the reading done. This weekend it took me over two days to read one edition of Social Text for my Afrofuturism class. Granted, the topic is new, so I can’t breeze through it, but I’m shocked by how long it has taken me. I don’t think I have attention-deficit, but the voices do slow me down. When I’m engaged in a particularly fruitful text and I feel a connection to the ideas or themes (sort of like the Social Text reading), my mind wanders. My inner-writer composes thoughts, sentences, and paragraphs (or rants). The voices write, explore, and create new themes. The voices write good stuff. The voices take me away from what I’m reading. Some of my other classmates have reading strategies that remind me of Christina. They can take a large text and break it down in a way that makes it easy for them to consume. In a way, I’m envious. Maybe it’ll get better. For now, I’ll continue to live vicariously through five surgical interns in Seattle. ~I have spoken~ |
Shouts, Blogs, and SnapsThis mash-up page contains some of my favorite posts from my blogging days over at "I Have Spoken" (IHS) on blogspot. There are also some shout outs, and snapshots here. To show history, I've kept some of the original dates from my blogposts although I did not carry over the original comments. Archives
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