No, that's not a typo. When I was at Bob Jones University, I learned how to pray poker.
In January, my fiance taught me how to play a simple game of poker. Just recently, my brain realized how similar a game was to the nightly prayer groups at BJU.
BJU is a fundamentalist university where giving prayer requests is the way to get the best gossip. Each night, except for Saturdays, the students gathered at 10:30 (and yes, there were two bells to tell you when it was and when you were late) to pray together. There's really nothing wrong with that, except for the whole bell thing, and it was a really good way to get to know people on your residence hall, because there would always be a lot of socialization. It was also a good way of uplifting your fellow students.
But, especially in a place like BJU, human nature prevails hard. People love to hear themselves talk, even the shy little missionary kid from Brazil (who speaks no Portuguese, oddly.) And we, as the human race, are fascinated with gruesome stories.
Here's how it starts.
Imagine you're hanging out with your friends, and you start telling them a story about this massive papercut you got from a book jacket once. (That actually happened to me when I worked at BAM. It hurts more than you'd think.) For some reason, the papercut story seems to give others both permission and fuel to share their numerous injury stories. It will escalate, usually with "well, I sawed my finger open while peeling a mango." (That happened to me too. By the way, I also used to play Monopoly alone.) Then a third friend will share the time he was running and tripped and gashed his knee open on a rock and needed like 58 stitches. Eventually it comes to a point where someone gets distracted and the conversation turns to other things that don't belong in any of the Saw films.
The same thing happens in prayer group at BJU, and I am not kidding. It's tweaked a little, though.
Let's just say I had, like five papers due in a week. (It was actually possible during my studies, as one semester I took 20 hours.) In prayer group, I'd say something like "I'm feeling kinda tired this week and I have a ton of projects coming due, so just I'd appreciate some prayer." Simple, right?
So the next prayer request would be a little worse. "My allergies are really acting up, and I can't see and it's driving me crazy, and I have projects due too."
And that's where the poker part came in.
Because the next one would be something along the lines of "I see your allergies, and I raise you the flu, plus my gramma has a cold."
And the next one. "Flu? Yeah, I've been really struggling with accepting God's will in my bronchitis this week. It's just...so hard..."
Each prayer group averaged about 12 people, so you can imagine how long this would go on, and people would really stretch, with things like my best friend's down the street neighbor might have skin cancer, because cancer wins points in the contest. Eventually, it'll get to "my dad's fifth cousin had his face chewed off in Miami, so just pray for him."
I finally figured out this game in the spring semester of 2009. It was my return to school after taking a semester off and working at BAM. One night, I was in prayer group after a phone conversation with my mom. Some friends of my brother had been in a pretty bad car accident, and one of them was airlifted to a trauma center with, among other injuries, a fractured skull and a ruptured spleen. My brother was pretty upset, according to my mom. The guys in the accident did end up okay, but that night, it was a major thing.
So after the obligatory requests about projects and allergies and struggling with stuff, it was my turn.
I mentioned the guy who'd been badly injured, making note of the ruptured spleen, because it is a serious, very traumatic injury.
Everyone in the room, seriously, went "Ewwwww."
You really would think I'd just eaten a booger in front of them.
But I was the last to give a prayer request.
I won the game with the mention of a ruptured spleen.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you pray poker at Bob Jones University.
Showing posts with label bob jones university. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bob jones university. Show all posts
Monday, July 2, 2012
Monday, June 4, 2012
Ruining Marriage Since 19??
The other night, I was pondering over something a roommate had said to me during my junior year in college. (Yes, it was over four years ago. I'm apparently that chick on the sadly canceled show Unforgettable.) While at dinner with some other young women, the subject turned to families, and I mentioned that my grandparents had been married in a church office in Emporia, VA, with my Granny's aunts serving as witnesses. My Pa was in his early twenties, and Granny was a very mature seventeen. At the time, they weren't Christians, no matter how you define the term. Their conversion would come later. My point is, they had the world's simplest wedding. That was fifty-seven years ago.
I related this story, and my roommate said something to the effect of "Oh yeah, if they weren't Christians, then a church wedding wasn't important to them."
Uh, no, they were poor and didn't have the funds for an "old money" wedding. My other grandparents, who did go to church, had a similarly simple wedding in the church office, with the preacher.
And last night it hit me. Fundamentalism and the rest of the world, together, have ruined marriage, but I'm not quite sure who the real culprit is.
At places like Bob Jones University (the most exposure to fundamentalism I've had) marriage is a goal. It's a finish line. It's practically the reason many women there go to college. Not all, but a heck of a lot. They talk about finding their prince, or their steak (because a hot dog isn't good quality meat, or whatever. I don't know. I think it's a gross analogy.) They talk about how they can wear white on their wedding day and be pure for their husbands and stuff. It's a finish line young men and women reach and collectively go, "Yes! Now we can have sex and it's not bad now!" They seem to overlook the commitment angle. That one day their spouse will do something that really just pisses them off. Not that there will be fights, but I wouldn't be surprised if BJU students, after marriage, are shocked by arguments, because literally all kids do there is gaze at each other (and occasionally one will feed the other, though I've only seen this once in person.) There is no substance. Saving themselves for marriage has become a tool. The wedding night is the goal.
On the opposite end of the spectrum is the rest of the world. I do enjoy watching Bridezillas sometimes. I think it's mostly fake, but sure entertaining in a mindless sort of way (also a good way to get ideas for decor and things. They are nice weddings, even if the people creating them are freaking insane.) It struck me that weddings have simply become an event. A really good excuse to throw a party. And not that there's anything wrong with parties. But $40,000 (and up) for five hours on a Saturday night? We've come to an age where women go "my dress budget is $7,000" without batting an eyelash and tell you that the way a wedding cake looks totally rules over how it tastes. Like it's okay that the cake sucks, as long as the sugar orchids are gorgeous. Even more absurd? Fake cakes. To save money. And serving sheet cake.
Like a foam cake that you pretend to cut while serving a sheet cake to your guests.
What the heck did you spend the money on that you couldn't even have a real cake?
Oh my bad, the 350 guests for which you need a fully stocked bar. Never mind that you really only know about fifty of them.
I'll stop being all frugal-judgey now because I really think it's the fundamentalist/goal oriented weddings that come with healthy doses of narcissism at no extra charge.
"Look, they saved themselves until marriage..." "The bride wore white..." (which is actually a book title, by the way), and all the pride that goes with it. I guess I'm a little prideful myself, I confess. My fiance and I have a relationship with actual conversations about stuff. We're not sex-crazed animals, which all those books and conferences and guides seem to assume all Christian engaged couples are. At BJU, there used to be a class about marriage and family that was required for all students before graduation. Mostly, it was about sex. The other half was funny anecdotes from life (which were enjoyable, actually.) There was a session about finances, but it wasn't marriage specific, and it was of course geared towards those planning a wedding for the week after they graduated. My own roommate (the same one who apparently didn't know that big weddings were for wealthy people), when I once mentioned that my boyfriend (who I wasn't yet engaged to) felt like he was more than that already, had to clarify "like you're really good friends, right?" Well, no, because we had been good friends before getting together anyway. Yeah, I was definitely interested in him, but he was still my friend first. I do not take that lightly.
I don't know who was the first to ruin the marriage, to throw it to the wayside in favor of the wedding. My suspicions lie with the ones who chose to pervert it and change it from a celebration looking forward to a life together to that moment where you can finally take off your purity ring and tell the world you saved yourself and "it's so worth it" because that's all you really cared about. A goal. Congratulations, you made it. Welcome to fifty years of a living nightmare if virginity was the only thing you ever bothered to think about regarding marriage.
Honestly, the party weddings have it more on point. Those people, even if they're over the top, legitimately seem to be celebrating a life together. If all you're excited about is that you found a husband or wife and can now have a raucous wedding night and have met your goal and saved yourself, well, you've officially missed the point. Good job.
I related this story, and my roommate said something to the effect of "Oh yeah, if they weren't Christians, then a church wedding wasn't important to them."
Uh, no, they were poor and didn't have the funds for an "old money" wedding. My other grandparents, who did go to church, had a similarly simple wedding in the church office, with the preacher.
And last night it hit me. Fundamentalism and the rest of the world, together, have ruined marriage, but I'm not quite sure who the real culprit is.
At places like Bob Jones University (the most exposure to fundamentalism I've had) marriage is a goal. It's a finish line. It's practically the reason many women there go to college. Not all, but a heck of a lot. They talk about finding their prince, or their steak (because a hot dog isn't good quality meat, or whatever. I don't know. I think it's a gross analogy.) They talk about how they can wear white on their wedding day and be pure for their husbands and stuff. It's a finish line young men and women reach and collectively go, "Yes! Now we can have sex and it's not bad now!" They seem to overlook the commitment angle. That one day their spouse will do something that really just pisses them off. Not that there will be fights, but I wouldn't be surprised if BJU students, after marriage, are shocked by arguments, because literally all kids do there is gaze at each other (and occasionally one will feed the other, though I've only seen this once in person.) There is no substance. Saving themselves for marriage has become a tool. The wedding night is the goal.
On the opposite end of the spectrum is the rest of the world. I do enjoy watching Bridezillas sometimes. I think it's mostly fake, but sure entertaining in a mindless sort of way (also a good way to get ideas for decor and things. They are nice weddings, even if the people creating them are freaking insane.) It struck me that weddings have simply become an event. A really good excuse to throw a party. And not that there's anything wrong with parties. But $40,000 (and up) for five hours on a Saturday night? We've come to an age where women go "my dress budget is $7,000" without batting an eyelash and tell you that the way a wedding cake looks totally rules over how it tastes. Like it's okay that the cake sucks, as long as the sugar orchids are gorgeous. Even more absurd? Fake cakes. To save money. And serving sheet cake.
Like a foam cake that you pretend to cut while serving a sheet cake to your guests.
What the heck did you spend the money on that you couldn't even have a real cake?
Oh my bad, the 350 guests for which you need a fully stocked bar. Never mind that you really only know about fifty of them.
I'll stop being all frugal-judgey now because I really think it's the fundamentalist/goal oriented weddings that come with healthy doses of narcissism at no extra charge.
"Look, they saved themselves until marriage..." "The bride wore white..." (which is actually a book title, by the way), and all the pride that goes with it. I guess I'm a little prideful myself, I confess. My fiance and I have a relationship with actual conversations about stuff. We're not sex-crazed animals, which all those books and conferences and guides seem to assume all Christian engaged couples are. At BJU, there used to be a class about marriage and family that was required for all students before graduation. Mostly, it was about sex. The other half was funny anecdotes from life (which were enjoyable, actually.) There was a session about finances, but it wasn't marriage specific, and it was of course geared towards those planning a wedding for the week after they graduated. My own roommate (the same one who apparently didn't know that big weddings were for wealthy people), when I once mentioned that my boyfriend (who I wasn't yet engaged to) felt like he was more than that already, had to clarify "like you're really good friends, right?" Well, no, because we had been good friends before getting together anyway. Yeah, I was definitely interested in him, but he was still my friend first. I do not take that lightly.
I don't know who was the first to ruin the marriage, to throw it to the wayside in favor of the wedding. My suspicions lie with the ones who chose to pervert it and change it from a celebration looking forward to a life together to that moment where you can finally take off your purity ring and tell the world you saved yourself and "it's so worth it" because that's all you really cared about. A goal. Congratulations, you made it. Welcome to fifty years of a living nightmare if virginity was the only thing you ever bothered to think about regarding marriage.
Honestly, the party weddings have it more on point. Those people, even if they're over the top, legitimately seem to be celebrating a life together. If all you're excited about is that you found a husband or wife and can now have a raucous wedding night and have met your goal and saved yourself, well, you've officially missed the point. Good job.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Why Bob Jones University Is Bascially a Zoo
So I've posted a couple of times about my alma mater, Bob Jones University. The name may trigger your brain because they recently made headlines for kicking out a Christopher Peterman because he watched Glee. I think the real reason he was kicked out is worse, because it just shows the pettiness that the University dips into. But this is not about the school's weird policies itself.
I'm here to just totally pick on the student body.
Mostly those above the Mason-Dixon line.
So to all of my dear Yankee friends, do bear with me. All's fair in war and humor.
I've been out of school for two years now, but experiences at BJU are so burned into my brain that I can't help but use them. On top of the gross cafeteria food, really really bad roommate situations, and my skillful dodging of rules*, I took in a lot of observations about people in general and noticed this one thing that stood out glaringly.
BJU students, especially if of the Northern persuasion, tend to act as if they're in a zoo.
Note I said tend. Not all do.
For example, I once used "orange" in a sentence when talking to someone I knew from Michigan. Before I was finished uttering my sentence, she set about repeating (several times, I might add) the way I pronounce the word. I can't really replicate it here, because I'm no linguist, but it is Southern, like myself. See, I chalked it up to being sheltered in a teensy Christian school (like many of my fellow students there), but an odd thing occurred.
It kept happening.
And not just to me.
"I don't understand why it's so hot..." Sweetie, it's August. Summer's hot in South Carolina.
"Your accent is so funny." Gee, thanks, yours too. Coen brothers heard of you lately?
"Why do you drive so slow?" Honey, that's a cop car, it's the end of the month, and the state needs some fast cash. You do the math.
"Haha, he's so gee-yetto." Oh dear. Who snatched you out of Minnesota?
And most interestingly, all of this was said with a tone of wonder, like children watching a lion sit around and do nothing all day.
I blame the BJU textbooks. The grammar one I used at my Christian school actually said that pronouncing "fire tower" as "far tar" (which I have never once heard, ever) was bad grammar. Uhm. No. That's not grammar.
Also, the textbooks made the battle of Gettysburg look sorta glorious. I'm no expert, but I know enough to know that Gettysburg sorta sucked for both sides.
Hmm...maybe it is the books after all.
I'm here to just totally pick on the student body.
Mostly those above the Mason-Dixon line.
So to all of my dear Yankee friends, do bear with me. All's fair in war and humor.
I've been out of school for two years now, but experiences at BJU are so burned into my brain that I can't help but use them. On top of the gross cafeteria food, really really bad roommate situations, and my skillful dodging of rules*, I took in a lot of observations about people in general and noticed this one thing that stood out glaringly.
BJU students, especially if of the Northern persuasion, tend to act as if they're in a zoo.
Note I said tend. Not all do.
For example, I once used "orange" in a sentence when talking to someone I knew from Michigan. Before I was finished uttering my sentence, she set about repeating (several times, I might add) the way I pronounce the word. I can't really replicate it here, because I'm no linguist, but it is Southern, like myself. See, I chalked it up to being sheltered in a teensy Christian school (like many of my fellow students there), but an odd thing occurred.
It kept happening.
And not just to me.
"I don't understand why it's so hot..." Sweetie, it's August. Summer's hot in South Carolina.
"Your accent is so funny." Gee, thanks, yours too. Coen brothers heard of you lately?
"Why do you drive so slow?" Honey, that's a cop car, it's the end of the month, and the state needs some fast cash. You do the math.
"Haha, he's so gee-yetto." Oh dear. Who snatched you out of Minnesota?
And most interestingly, all of this was said with a tone of wonder, like children watching a lion sit around and do nothing all day.
I blame the BJU textbooks. The grammar one I used at my Christian school actually said that pronouncing "fire tower" as "far tar" (which I have never once heard, ever) was bad grammar. Uhm. No. That's not grammar.
Also, the textbooks made the battle of Gettysburg look sorta glorious. I'm no expert, but I know enough to know that Gettysburg sorta sucked for both sides.
Hmm...maybe it is the books after all.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Reflections of a Future Terrible Parent, Part 2
Continuing from Part 1.
I'd never really labeled myself as anything beyond being a Christian. I went to a Baptist church back then. We started going because my cousin would go to Awana with her friend, who went to that church. I started going to Awana, and it just naturally happened that we started attending, because my dad grew up there. His parents had become Christians in the 1960s and that was the home church they chose. They still go there. The church also basically ran my school, but I was never aware of it beyond simply knowing. They felt separate and as a result, I never really felt that close to the church. I went on Wednesday nights, and later we'd start going more regularly on Sundays, and I did get involved more in high school. That was pretty fun. But I never labeled myself a fundamentalist. My clothing was decidedly unmodest (my shorts went mid-thigh and I wore a bathing suit to a mixed swimming pool) and my family wasn't that big into hymns. For awhile, I only believed in the King James Version of the Bible, but for no other reason that I had been told it was the best. I don't believe that anymore, and I'm ashamed to say that I made that declaration without any sort of backing or research, checking around, or even reading it much for myself. Despite all this, I was still pretty normal, and I was never a fundamentalist.
My reading tastes varied, as I mentioned before. I didn't delve into the classics, though. I read teen lit, and a lot of it. I'm sure that a lot of it was vapid and shallow, and I know some of my friends would raise an eyebrow and issue an intellectual disclaimer that the movie version was cute, but sort of silly. All this to say, I didn't grow up reading Pride and Prejudice voraciously. Fine if you do. I more enjoyed Treasure Island and Journey to the Center of the Earth. To this day, I still haven't read it. I might. Pride and Prejudice came with my Kindle app, and I own the 2005 movie (which I did like quite a bit. But it, alas, has "too much drama." Or something.) I still read a lot of YA lit. I liked Twilight (sorry to block your potshots here, but that doesn't make me unintelligent either.) I think part of the reason I do like the genre is because my local library didn't have a lot of it to offer that I liked then, and I was often too embarrassed to venture into the children's section. I'm writing a YA novel. Jane Eyre, as I understand the story, freaks me out a little. I mean, ew, the guy locks his schizo wife up in the attic and starts skirt-chasing a 20 year old, who likes it. That's officially grosser than Twilight right there.
So I won't make my sons or daughters read the classics because they're "good for them." I will train them to make the right decisions and to analyze everything, just like I do, and just like my fiance does. I didn't need ten thousand rules growing up because my parents taught me to think.
I said before that my mom went back to work once I was old enough to babysit my brother in the afternoons. I never got paid; it was just something normal that I did, every day, because my mom sacrificed a lot so we could have a private education. By no means did we live outrageously; our household was a frugal one. There were plenty of summer vacations, because building those memories is so important to my family, even today.
My junior year at BJU, I had this roommate who was mostly a very sweet person, but very sheltered. She was engaged to a man (and they're married now) who very much considered himself an authority in her life, in such instances as not letting her speak to any of her male friends. (I won't even touch on that. Make of it what you will.) Well, somehow there was some discussion or other in the room one day, between me and her and my two freshman roommates, about women working in WWII. (My great-grandmother was one such woman. I'm very proud of that.) I don't remember much about what happened through most of the conversation, but at the end, the older roommate said "But I believe women should have just stayed home after the war" in a condescending tone.*
And now, I can only think how spoiled rotten she was. She wasn't alone either. I know myself that stay-at-home moms do stuff, all day, especially if the kids are very young. It's a hard job. But I have known so many people who hold a quiet judgment for women like both my grandmothers, at least one of my great-grandmothers, and my mom. In a crowd of tenth generation Christian future homemakers and preachers' kids, I know I stood out, having come from a long line of women who worked and sacrificed a lot to give to their families.
So I will not hesitate to work if it means that my children will otherwise not eat or not have decent clothes.
That brings me to another point. See, growing up in a regular school, even if it was a private school, helped me understand people. Now, that's one thing that's not so unique at my alma mater, but there still are a lot of people in this country who are homeschooled. The US is pretty cool about that sort of thing, and I'm glad. But I'm also happy that I was never homeschooled, and it's very likely something I won't be doing.
I can hear the resounding "whys" now. I've actually been asked that, and in a confrontational manner. As if I hadn't thought it through. As if I had no idea what I was talking about.
But I have thought it through, and I have several reasons for not wanting to homeschool my children. For one, I don't want them to get a lopsided education. I only studied chemistry in college for one year, and, spoiler alert, I wasn't good at it. Same goes for math. Now, if there's something concrete I can focus on, like learning by doing stuff hands-on, then I'm good. That's why Physics was easier for me than Chemistry. Not easy, just easier. I still struggled, but I understood it better. I'm even convinced that Calculus could be conquered if one uses objects instead of concepts. But see, I don't know that my kids will learn the same way I do. They might, they might not. I don't want them to get an education so heavy in history and literature that they miss out on math and science and lose any opportunity for a calling. Even if I were to be a stay-at-home mom, my future husband, who is good at math and science, would be at work all day. I wouldn't be satisfied having my kids learn from a DVD. If it's obvious that one of my kids will love math or science, but has no way of learning past the most basic concepts, then there is a failure somewhere. Not everyone can major in English and love it. I sure wouldn't. Props to y'all who do. I believe an actual teacher needs to be there to help where I couldn't. If times are tough from a monetary perspective, I will work too. I've been told that there are bad influences in schools. And that all goes back to raising your child right.
So, I say again, I also will most likely not be homeschooling my children.
What I don't look forward to is the quiet judgment. I already know someone who looked quite surprised, and somewhat unpleasantly so, that I'm a whole two months older than my fiance, because "the husband should be older." Too late, I guess.
I'm not trying to insult anyone with the things I believe and the things I will do; I simply ask that the favor is returned. I'm not horribly altered because my life didn't have fresh baked muffins**, classes at home, and crappy old literature all the time, every day. I had a normal childhood and a normal adolescence. Yet still, I've had people, even friends, tell me the same thing a few times: "I didn't think you'd be a nice person until I got to know you." I don't even know what to say to that.
There's probably lots of other ways I'll manage to be a terrible parent, but I don't care. I learned from the awesomest. Cheers to "terrible" parenting.
*She also, for some reason, thought that my Dad's parents did not have a big wedding because they weren't church-going people at the time, and that it just wasn't important to them. My grandparents were poor. They couldn't afford a fancy old-money wedding, and were married by a minister in his office at his church. Same goes for my Mom's parents, who did attend church regularly. Tsk. Spoiled.
**I can bake the heck out of a chocolate chip cookie, though. Just sayin'.
I'd never really labeled myself as anything beyond being a Christian. I went to a Baptist church back then. We started going because my cousin would go to Awana with her friend, who went to that church. I started going to Awana, and it just naturally happened that we started attending, because my dad grew up there. His parents had become Christians in the 1960s and that was the home church they chose. They still go there. The church also basically ran my school, but I was never aware of it beyond simply knowing. They felt separate and as a result, I never really felt that close to the church. I went on Wednesday nights, and later we'd start going more regularly on Sundays, and I did get involved more in high school. That was pretty fun. But I never labeled myself a fundamentalist. My clothing was decidedly unmodest (my shorts went mid-thigh and I wore a bathing suit to a mixed swimming pool) and my family wasn't that big into hymns. For awhile, I only believed in the King James Version of the Bible, but for no other reason that I had been told it was the best. I don't believe that anymore, and I'm ashamed to say that I made that declaration without any sort of backing or research, checking around, or even reading it much for myself. Despite all this, I was still pretty normal, and I was never a fundamentalist.
My reading tastes varied, as I mentioned before. I didn't delve into the classics, though. I read teen lit, and a lot of it. I'm sure that a lot of it was vapid and shallow, and I know some of my friends would raise an eyebrow and issue an intellectual disclaimer that the movie version was cute, but sort of silly. All this to say, I didn't grow up reading Pride and Prejudice voraciously. Fine if you do. I more enjoyed Treasure Island and Journey to the Center of the Earth. To this day, I still haven't read it. I might. Pride and Prejudice came with my Kindle app, and I own the 2005 movie (which I did like quite a bit. But it, alas, has "too much drama." Or something.) I still read a lot of YA lit. I liked Twilight (sorry to block your potshots here, but that doesn't make me unintelligent either.) I think part of the reason I do like the genre is because my local library didn't have a lot of it to offer that I liked then, and I was often too embarrassed to venture into the children's section. I'm writing a YA novel. Jane Eyre, as I understand the story, freaks me out a little. I mean, ew, the guy locks his schizo wife up in the attic and starts skirt-chasing a 20 year old, who likes it. That's officially grosser than Twilight right there.
So I won't make my sons or daughters read the classics because they're "good for them." I will train them to make the right decisions and to analyze everything, just like I do, and just like my fiance does. I didn't need ten thousand rules growing up because my parents taught me to think.
I said before that my mom went back to work once I was old enough to babysit my brother in the afternoons. I never got paid; it was just something normal that I did, every day, because my mom sacrificed a lot so we could have a private education. By no means did we live outrageously; our household was a frugal one. There were plenty of summer vacations, because building those memories is so important to my family, even today.
My junior year at BJU, I had this roommate who was mostly a very sweet person, but very sheltered. She was engaged to a man (and they're married now) who very much considered himself an authority in her life, in such instances as not letting her speak to any of her male friends. (I won't even touch on that. Make of it what you will.) Well, somehow there was some discussion or other in the room one day, between me and her and my two freshman roommates, about women working in WWII. (My great-grandmother was one such woman. I'm very proud of that.) I don't remember much about what happened through most of the conversation, but at the end, the older roommate said "But I believe women should have just stayed home after the war" in a condescending tone.*
And now, I can only think how spoiled rotten she was. She wasn't alone either. I know myself that stay-at-home moms do stuff, all day, especially if the kids are very young. It's a hard job. But I have known so many people who hold a quiet judgment for women like both my grandmothers, at least one of my great-grandmothers, and my mom. In a crowd of tenth generation Christian future homemakers and preachers' kids, I know I stood out, having come from a long line of women who worked and sacrificed a lot to give to their families.
So I will not hesitate to work if it means that my children will otherwise not eat or not have decent clothes.
That brings me to another point. See, growing up in a regular school, even if it was a private school, helped me understand people. Now, that's one thing that's not so unique at my alma mater, but there still are a lot of people in this country who are homeschooled. The US is pretty cool about that sort of thing, and I'm glad. But I'm also happy that I was never homeschooled, and it's very likely something I won't be doing.
I can hear the resounding "whys" now. I've actually been asked that, and in a confrontational manner. As if I hadn't thought it through. As if I had no idea what I was talking about.
But I have thought it through, and I have several reasons for not wanting to homeschool my children. For one, I don't want them to get a lopsided education. I only studied chemistry in college for one year, and, spoiler alert, I wasn't good at it. Same goes for math. Now, if there's something concrete I can focus on, like learning by doing stuff hands-on, then I'm good. That's why Physics was easier for me than Chemistry. Not easy, just easier. I still struggled, but I understood it better. I'm even convinced that Calculus could be conquered if one uses objects instead of concepts. But see, I don't know that my kids will learn the same way I do. They might, they might not. I don't want them to get an education so heavy in history and literature that they miss out on math and science and lose any opportunity for a calling. Even if I were to be a stay-at-home mom, my future husband, who is good at math and science, would be at work all day. I wouldn't be satisfied having my kids learn from a DVD. If it's obvious that one of my kids will love math or science, but has no way of learning past the most basic concepts, then there is a failure somewhere. Not everyone can major in English and love it. I sure wouldn't. Props to y'all who do. I believe an actual teacher needs to be there to help where I couldn't. If times are tough from a monetary perspective, I will work too. I've been told that there are bad influences in schools. And that all goes back to raising your child right.
So, I say again, I also will most likely not be homeschooling my children.
What I don't look forward to is the quiet judgment. I already know someone who looked quite surprised, and somewhat unpleasantly so, that I'm a whole two months older than my fiance, because "the husband should be older." Too late, I guess.
I'm not trying to insult anyone with the things I believe and the things I will do; I simply ask that the favor is returned. I'm not horribly altered because my life didn't have fresh baked muffins**, classes at home, and crappy old literature all the time, every day. I had a normal childhood and a normal adolescence. Yet still, I've had people, even friends, tell me the same thing a few times: "I didn't think you'd be a nice person until I got to know you." I don't even know what to say to that.
There's probably lots of other ways I'll manage to be a terrible parent, but I don't care. I learned from the awesomest. Cheers to "terrible" parenting.
*She also, for some reason, thought that my Dad's parents did not have a big wedding because they weren't church-going people at the time, and that it just wasn't important to them. My grandparents were poor. They couldn't afford a fancy old-money wedding, and were married by a minister in his office at his church. Same goes for my Mom's parents, who did attend church regularly. Tsk. Spoiled.
**I can bake the heck out of a chocolate chip cookie, though. Just sayin'.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Reflections of a Future Terrible Parent, Part 1
When I decided in the spring of 2005, on a whim, to apply to and attend Bob Jones University, I had no idea what I'd be getting myself into. I was a little familiar with the school, mostly through some of the textbooks my Christian school used (there were some historical inaccuracies and brushovers) and the students who visited from the school (way too smiley.) But, for some reason that wasn't at the time at all obvious to me, I knew that I needed to be at that college in the fall of 2005. When I decided that, I was at a senior retreat for my class. I didn't know then that the man I'll be marrying in a few months was sitting in the same room, with his senior class. Later that year, because of a conversation with a good friend who also went to BJU (the only other person in my class to do so,) I met my now-fiance. It was more than I ever could have thought I'd receive simply for following an impression upon my soul. I never expected to even have many friends, as I'm not outgoing. But I have those too, thank God.
Everyone knows Bob Jones University is not without its flaws. It's become quite infamous lately, for what I think are grand missteps in judgement. It's also a place with many rules. Those I don't care about. I'm not here to really talk about Bob Jones University. It's the attitudes within a few in my generation (and older) that I encountered both at the school and outside of it that really cemented in my mind certain things I will not do when I am a parent.
I grew up in the 90s, as a normal kid. We moved around town a few times, but because I went to a private Christian school, I never had to change where I went. It was always the same place. Other than having to wear dresses every day to school, my childhood was not at all different than most other kids that grew up then. I devoured the Goosebumps book series, as well as The Babysitters Club. I don't think I owned many of the latter, and only one of the former. I also read the American Girl books (the ones that went with the dolls), but I didn't own many of them. The Bookmobile coming every 3 weeks was my own private Christmas; we didn't even have to go to the library, because it came to us. I loved that. I got my fill of BSC and Goosebumps, as well as other scary books for kids. I liked the spooky stuff. Seriously, the 90s was a great time to be nine years old. Before we got cable, a weekend trip to my Gramma's house in Virginia was a treat, because she did have cable, and therefore, we could watch SNICK on Saturday night. My favorite was the still-scary Are You Afraid of the Dark. I loved that show.
Until I was about eleven years old, my mom stayed home to take care of my little brother. When he went to kindergarten, she went back to work (she's a nurse.) This left me with the responsibility of us kids staying home alone every day, which was fine. We watched Kids WB and Fox 50 Kids. Animaniacs was an extraordinary show. I watched three straight incarnations of Power Rangers, as well as this show with some knights in Ireland. I freaking loved Mystic Knights. That show rocked. And none of it was educational. Saturday mornings were much the same, because ABC had all the best shows by then. (CBS had my heart for a while, though, as did Fox, which played Peter Pan and the Pirates.) Disney's Doug wasn't as good as the original, which aired on Nickelodeon. Still watched it, though. My best friend (who also went to my school) lived up the street, around the corner, and up this insane hill that probably wouldn't be so bad if I gave it a whirl at th age of 25. I biked everywhere in my neighborhood, exploring every nook and cranny to my hearts content. I finished 6th grade, started shaving my legs, and started junior high. I remember being a Britney Spears fan, back before she sorta lost it. Seventh grade was marvelously awkward for me. After that year, my best friend moved away, and we moved out of our neighborhood and across town. Another friend transferred, and the only link was a phone number (we didn't get internet until later that year), and a dude whom I'd known since 5th grade and whom I had declared to be my mortal enemy. Sort of. (Same dude was the friend who went to BJU. Funny how things turn out, ain't it?) It was a lonely year.
High school was better. Actually, it was pretty great. I was still an introvert, so I was the quiet one, but who cared if I could get away with stuff in my school. 9/11/2001 was at the beginning of my freshman year, and it was pretty scary because North Carolina has its good share of military bases. At some point in that time frame, I transitioned from my rather conservative peach eyeshadow and pink lipstick to smudged eyeliner in blue, green, or purple, and dark lipstick in red, purple, and sometimes silver. Blush was not something I was a fan of. Pallor was my friend. I liked books and stuff with bows and arrows in them, but I was also a girly-girl. The US invaded Iraq in 2003. 2004 brought Green Day's American Idiot, so that was awesome, but we also worried about the draft starting up again, and whether women would be drafted as well, if it came to that. I graduated in 2005, at the age of eighteen, and started preparing to go away to college.
I was not prepared for what I'd face from other Christians, since my upbringing in a Christian home had been so so very regular.
Everyone knows Bob Jones University is not without its flaws. It's become quite infamous lately, for what I think are grand missteps in judgement. It's also a place with many rules. Those I don't care about. I'm not here to really talk about Bob Jones University. It's the attitudes within a few in my generation (and older) that I encountered both at the school and outside of it that really cemented in my mind certain things I will not do when I am a parent.
I grew up in the 90s, as a normal kid. We moved around town a few times, but because I went to a private Christian school, I never had to change where I went. It was always the same place. Other than having to wear dresses every day to school, my childhood was not at all different than most other kids that grew up then. I devoured the Goosebumps book series, as well as The Babysitters Club. I don't think I owned many of the latter, and only one of the former. I also read the American Girl books (the ones that went with the dolls), but I didn't own many of them. The Bookmobile coming every 3 weeks was my own private Christmas; we didn't even have to go to the library, because it came to us. I loved that. I got my fill of BSC and Goosebumps, as well as other scary books for kids. I liked the spooky stuff. Seriously, the 90s was a great time to be nine years old. Before we got cable, a weekend trip to my Gramma's house in Virginia was a treat, because she did have cable, and therefore, we could watch SNICK on Saturday night. My favorite was the still-scary Are You Afraid of the Dark. I loved that show.
Until I was about eleven years old, my mom stayed home to take care of my little brother. When he went to kindergarten, she went back to work (she's a nurse.) This left me with the responsibility of us kids staying home alone every day, which was fine. We watched Kids WB and Fox 50 Kids. Animaniacs was an extraordinary show. I watched three straight incarnations of Power Rangers, as well as this show with some knights in Ireland. I freaking loved Mystic Knights. That show rocked. And none of it was educational. Saturday mornings were much the same, because ABC had all the best shows by then. (CBS had my heart for a while, though, as did Fox, which played Peter Pan and the Pirates.) Disney's Doug wasn't as good as the original, which aired on Nickelodeon. Still watched it, though. My best friend (who also went to my school) lived up the street, around the corner, and up this insane hill that probably wouldn't be so bad if I gave it a whirl at th age of 25. I biked everywhere in my neighborhood, exploring every nook and cranny to my hearts content. I finished 6th grade, started shaving my legs, and started junior high. I remember being a Britney Spears fan, back before she sorta lost it. Seventh grade was marvelously awkward for me. After that year, my best friend moved away, and we moved out of our neighborhood and across town. Another friend transferred, and the only link was a phone number (we didn't get internet until later that year), and a dude whom I'd known since 5th grade and whom I had declared to be my mortal enemy. Sort of. (Same dude was the friend who went to BJU. Funny how things turn out, ain't it?) It was a lonely year.
High school was better. Actually, it was pretty great. I was still an introvert, so I was the quiet one, but who cared if I could get away with stuff in my school. 9/11/2001 was at the beginning of my freshman year, and it was pretty scary because North Carolina has its good share of military bases. At some point in that time frame, I transitioned from my rather conservative peach eyeshadow and pink lipstick to smudged eyeliner in blue, green, or purple, and dark lipstick in red, purple, and sometimes silver. Blush was not something I was a fan of. Pallor was my friend. I liked books and stuff with bows and arrows in them, but I was also a girly-girl. The US invaded Iraq in 2003. 2004 brought Green Day's American Idiot, so that was awesome, but we also worried about the draft starting up again, and whether women would be drafted as well, if it came to that. I graduated in 2005, at the age of eighteen, and started preparing to go away to college.
I was not prepared for what I'd face from other Christians, since my upbringing in a Christian home had been so so very regular.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
So Far...
If you found your way here via a link from another site, then it is entirely possible that you already know about Weirdly Awesome NC, a really cool blog that's just recently started up. I only wish it had existed when I was about eleven years old, 'cause seriously yall, I would have eaten all that stuff up. I'm promoting it here today because the writer has been so kind as to link to my site from hers, specifically to my pictures of the whirligigs. Follow Weirdly Awesome NC on Twitter @WeirdAwesomeNC.
So I've been pretty busy lately. About a month after we lost Minnie, I adopted a new puppy, by the name of Pippa. She's a handful, and so full of energy, but it actually makes me glad I don't have to change diapers or deal with little hands grabbing for stuff. But I do like to believe that a puppy is practice for parenthood. I believe this because I remember my own childhood, and my brother's. One single instance involved a bottle of baby powder and making it "snow" in one of our bedrooms. Hint: it wasn't me declaring an indoor snowday.
I've also been pretty hard at work on my book, and I'm experimenting with digital publishing first. Horror Vacui is my first attempt at such. Marketing is really what worries me, once I get everything finished and ready to go. I hear tales of authors spending in the thousands for marketing. I'm gonna see what I can do with Twitter and things. I do like having this desk job, because it helps me get things done when there's downtime at work. The book's come a long way since I was fifteen years old and the text was based heavily on The Chronicles of Narnia, The Lord of the Rings, and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I know looking back that it wouldn't have ever been ready to publish then. Not even three years later. It needed a ten-year slow cook for every influence in my life to add flavor. I avoid directly taking things. Elves for instance. I have no elves in my story. I don't want them there, frankly.
I'd rather have guns. I've found myself wondering if my story can be truly considered fantasy. There are no fairy godmothers or prophecies from elven seers in times past, but there's also little to no modern technology after a certain point. Broadswords and bows are few. Discussing this with my fiance was a little inconclusive. I didn't grow up reading the numerous mediocre clones of J.R.R. Tolkien. His epic work was the only one of its type I've enjoyed. There are other books with swords and bows and arrows that I couldn't finish. If it can't be called a fantasy novel, then what?
I can't figure it out, that's for sure. Everything I write is in some way flavored by my entire life, not just the books I've read in the past three, five, or ten years. I did not destroy the book's original foundation. I just changed what was built on it.
Unlike many of my friends, I grew up reading Goosebumps and The Babysitter's Club. (Many friends of mine went to college with me, and more often than not, adult students of Bob Jones University had more sheltered childhoods. I like to imagine that many of my fellow students at BJU had stay-at-home moms. My mom chose to work so that my brother and I could attend a private Christian school. I have been judged and probably pitied for it, but I've never felt anything but grateful.) I read many YA books, including ones that the pseudo-intellectuals of my generation now deny they ever read. Yeah, I read shallow, vapid books. Recently, I enjoyed Twilight. Twice. I watch TV as well as lots and lots of movies. Zombieland was kinda gross but pretty funny. Legally Blond was hilarious and I still enjoy it. My brother, when he was young, kept the movie Back to the Future on loop, just about. I've seen the original Star Wars more times than I can count, and I really get a kick out of Dumb & Dumber.
Mash all of this together, and all of it, along with my personality, temperament, beliefs, and personal convictions are what make me. It will very naturally bleed into the things I create.
I refuse to label myself. Why limit my work?
So I've been pretty busy lately. About a month after we lost Minnie, I adopted a new puppy, by the name of Pippa. She's a handful, and so full of energy, but it actually makes me glad I don't have to change diapers or deal with little hands grabbing for stuff. But I do like to believe that a puppy is practice for parenthood. I believe this because I remember my own childhood, and my brother's. One single instance involved a bottle of baby powder and making it "snow" in one of our bedrooms. Hint: it wasn't me declaring an indoor snowday.
I've also been pretty hard at work on my book, and I'm experimenting with digital publishing first. Horror Vacui is my first attempt at such. Marketing is really what worries me, once I get everything finished and ready to go. I hear tales of authors spending in the thousands for marketing. I'm gonna see what I can do with Twitter and things. I do like having this desk job, because it helps me get things done when there's downtime at work. The book's come a long way since I was fifteen years old and the text was based heavily on The Chronicles of Narnia, The Lord of the Rings, and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I know looking back that it wouldn't have ever been ready to publish then. Not even three years later. It needed a ten-year slow cook for every influence in my life to add flavor. I avoid directly taking things. Elves for instance. I have no elves in my story. I don't want them there, frankly.
I'd rather have guns. I've found myself wondering if my story can be truly considered fantasy. There are no fairy godmothers or prophecies from elven seers in times past, but there's also little to no modern technology after a certain point. Broadswords and bows are few. Discussing this with my fiance was a little inconclusive. I didn't grow up reading the numerous mediocre clones of J.R.R. Tolkien. His epic work was the only one of its type I've enjoyed. There are other books with swords and bows and arrows that I couldn't finish. If it can't be called a fantasy novel, then what?
I can't figure it out, that's for sure. Everything I write is in some way flavored by my entire life, not just the books I've read in the past three, five, or ten years. I did not destroy the book's original foundation. I just changed what was built on it.
Unlike many of my friends, I grew up reading Goosebumps and The Babysitter's Club. (Many friends of mine went to college with me, and more often than not, adult students of Bob Jones University had more sheltered childhoods. I like to imagine that many of my fellow students at BJU had stay-at-home moms. My mom chose to work so that my brother and I could attend a private Christian school. I have been judged and probably pitied for it, but I've never felt anything but grateful.) I read many YA books, including ones that the pseudo-intellectuals of my generation now deny they ever read. Yeah, I read shallow, vapid books. Recently, I enjoyed Twilight. Twice. I watch TV as well as lots and lots of movies. Zombieland was kinda gross but pretty funny. Legally Blond was hilarious and I still enjoy it. My brother, when he was young, kept the movie Back to the Future on loop, just about. I've seen the original Star Wars more times than I can count, and I really get a kick out of Dumb & Dumber.
Mash all of this together, and all of it, along with my personality, temperament, beliefs, and personal convictions are what make me. It will very naturally bleed into the things I create.
I refuse to label myself. Why limit my work?
Thursday, February 2, 2012
That Really Bugs Me
Here's a random list of stuff that annoys, confuses, or otherwise bothers me.
1. The smell of peanut butter
Status: Bother
I really cannot stand the smell of peanut butter.
By this I mean I literally get nauseated when I get a whiff of the stuff.
I blame this diet I went on in 8th grade. One of the strange meals involved 2 tablespoons of natural (meaning unsweetened) peanut butter on a bread.
It was an unholy alliance, and I still don't make peanut butter cookies.
2. My blood is a second class citizen.
Status: Annoying/confusing/bother
Whenever I heard anyone talk about giving blood, there was always the mention of how the most requested blood type in hospitals is O type blood.
I always feel a little flicker of shame.
See, my blood type is A-positive, because I am apparently just that awesome. Back in 1986 or so, there were at least a couple of people who decided to donate blood who were A-positive. Yet somehow...it doesn't have that O-type magic that everyone just craves.
You always get a feeling that the nurses are all like "oh...A-positive...well, I guess we'll take it" in their minds. Then you feel a little defiant.
Yeah, heck right, my blood's good enough. What.
3. I'm female, so I'm all over chocolate like Dracula in a blood bank.
Status: Confusing
I'll take a second to explain. While I was in college, I heard this one a lot. "Girls, don't you just crave chocolate sometime..." "Oooh, truffles..." "Girls, doesn't chocolate just make everything better..."
Uhm. No.
Now, I do like chocolate. I imagine a lot of people do, and I've only met a couple of people who don't prefer it. Fine by me; my candy of choice is Haribo Happy Colas, because they are scientifically proven to be that ambrosia stuff the Greeks kept going on about.
But, in an interesting twist of things, my fiance is the one with the sweet tooth. Mostly, sugar makes my teeth hurt and gives me a touch of heartburn. I don't eat meal replacement bars for that reason.
I actually refer to my taste as a "meat tooth."
I also don't drink, so I had a double advantage at BJU while all my fellow women students had their wits compromised by the presence of Lindor truffles.
4. "I pushed my blond hair away from my face, and my violet eyes stared across the land..."
Status: Annoyance, to say the very least.
I see this a lot in way too many first-person books. Usually they have younger characters. Sometimes they're self-published, sometimes they're bestsellers.
There's a pretty big reason you probably should avoid this.
By probably, I mean definitely.
Ready for it?
Here goes...
No one describes themselves when they're telling a story. I don't care if you're writing in a journal or telling a story to someone face-to-face. If you've resorted to having your main character describe himself or herself, then back off for a second. Look at it through the eyes of another person.
And don't freaking do it.
Honestly, readers will picture a character any way they please, regardless of your input. Also, if that character absolutely has to take the time to describe how mind-blowing their eye color is, then they're at best self-absorbed.
And yes, I just snuck writing tips in. Deal with it.
5. "Are you German?/You look German..."/"You look like your name should be Helga."
Status: Bother/Back the heck away now.
The first two aren't so bad, except they don't make a whole lot of sense.
I went to Bob Jones University for college, and because of apparent nutritional deficiencies within fundamentalism, I was among the taller of the students there. Also, people from Michigan are short. So there's that.
Apparently being tall makes you German, in BJU-World.
Now, sure, it would make sense if I had actual blond hair and fit any stereotype whatsoever, but I have brown hair. Yes, I have blue eyes, but that particular trait is more indicitive of my actual ancestry, which is partly of the British Isles. And BJU people are really good at asking awkward questions, like if you're German because "you're so tall."
The Helga thing actually hurt a little. I'm not even sure where it came from, or what the intent was, but it was said with a derisive giggle, by people I didn't even know well. It bothered me because nothing about my clothes or hairstyle invited such a statement. In BJU-World, someone with the name "Helga," however inaccurate the perception, is heavy-browed and lumbering.
I already know I'm quite far from being pretty by anyone's standards, but this little incident was just one more reason I was glad to graduate and get away from there, mostly because people there were willing to say anything about you behind your back, as long as it's "good clean fun."
6. I have a history degree, so I just know tons about the Civil War.
Status: Confusing
'Cause I really don't.
I mean, I really, really don't.
I never took a single Civil War-focus class in all my four years of college. Heck, I only took one American history class beyond the required U.S. History classes. Most of my choices included the ancient world and the 20th century. My personal favorite choices were a study of Germany from 1933 to 1945 and World War II. I woulda taken a bazillion classes on the latter if I could.
My favorite century is the 20th. I like seeing how it all meshes together. I love seeing how everything, from technology to pop culture to warfare, changed in just 100 years. The 20th century is like no other.
'Bout the only thing I know about the Civil War is the correct pronunciation of Antietam. Call me negligent, but it wasn't what really captured my attention as I grew up. At some point in high school, WWII caught my eye and everything just unfolded from there.
7. "Well, you can do stuff giving blood, because you're taller/bigger/like a giant..."
Status: Really freaking annoying
I think I first noticed this in earnest a little while back, when I was discussing a blood drive with some people. Now, as I've said before, I'm not exactly petite. By that I mean that I am 5 feet, 9 inches tall.
Not exactly a giant, either.
See, when I was a baby, my white blood cells decided to go on a witch hunt. Like most witch hunts, it went badly, and my poor innocent red blood cells were being eaten in pretty great numbers. I imagine it looked somewhat like when the T-rex in Jurassic Park ate that goat. I had to receive a blood transfusion of packed red cells. That's a heck of a lot of A-positive blood types. The crisis was averted, and I am here today, delivering your daily-ish dose of snark.
So you could say that giving blood is close to my heart.* I've done it two times now in my lifetime, and I'm trying to get my fiance to do it so we can have an excuse to go out for a steak afterwards. I try to encourage people to give blood if they can, when the subject comes up.
The replies are always what really get me. I can see if someone just plain doesn't want to. I mean, if you're squeamish, that's fine. Or, alternatively, you can't, for whatever health reason.
The annoying part is when smaller people say stuff like "well, I'd just get sick and have to go to bed all day; you're a lot bigger than me, so you can afford to give blood."
Uhm, actually, no I can't. The average human has about 10 pints of blood. The range for women tends to be 8-10 pints. I have as much blood in my body as I'm supposed to; when I give a pint, it's a lot.
See, I have trouble gauging what "a lot of food" is. What seems to me like it might be a lot of food very likely isn't. The last time I gave blood, I'd had a good breakfast, but "eat a lot" for me, that day, meant adding a piece of toast, which, you might have guessed, isn't iron rich. Couple that with having an upset stomach sometime that morning. I was running on empty and decided to give anyway. For some reason, filling the bag didn't take as long the second time around. I'd estimate 5-10 minutes, which is short for a donation. I got pretty nauseous after that. If I actually bled a pint, it would make a mess.
So no, tiny people, actually, I can't just "afford" to do without a whole pint of my blood. It's not money. I can't save it up and decide to splurge on a trip to the Red Cross. So spare me the excuses and just be honest, okay?
So now you know.
And it probably explains a lot.
*I swear, that wording was an accident.
1. The smell of peanut butter
Status: Bother
I really cannot stand the smell of peanut butter.
By this I mean I literally get nauseated when I get a whiff of the stuff.
I blame this diet I went on in 8th grade. One of the strange meals involved 2 tablespoons of natural (meaning unsweetened) peanut butter on a bread.
It was an unholy alliance, and I still don't make peanut butter cookies.
2. My blood is a second class citizen.
Status: Annoying/confusing/bother
Whenever I heard anyone talk about giving blood, there was always the mention of how the most requested blood type in hospitals is O type blood.
I always feel a little flicker of shame.
See, my blood type is A-positive, because I am apparently just that awesome. Back in 1986 or so, there were at least a couple of people who decided to donate blood who were A-positive. Yet somehow...it doesn't have that O-type magic that everyone just craves.
You always get a feeling that the nurses are all like "oh...A-positive...well, I guess we'll take it" in their minds. Then you feel a little defiant.
Yeah, heck right, my blood's good enough. What.
3. I'm female, so I'm all over chocolate like Dracula in a blood bank.
Status: Confusing
I'll take a second to explain. While I was in college, I heard this one a lot. "Girls, don't you just crave chocolate sometime..." "Oooh, truffles..." "Girls, doesn't chocolate just make everything better..."
Uhm. No.
Now, I do like chocolate. I imagine a lot of people do, and I've only met a couple of people who don't prefer it. Fine by me; my candy of choice is Haribo Happy Colas, because they are scientifically proven to be that ambrosia stuff the Greeks kept going on about.
But, in an interesting twist of things, my fiance is the one with the sweet tooth. Mostly, sugar makes my teeth hurt and gives me a touch of heartburn. I don't eat meal replacement bars for that reason.
I actually refer to my taste as a "meat tooth."
I also don't drink, so I had a double advantage at BJU while all my fellow women students had their wits compromised by the presence of Lindor truffles.
4. "I pushed my blond hair away from my face, and my violet eyes stared across the land..."
Status: Annoyance, to say the very least.
I see this a lot in way too many first-person books. Usually they have younger characters. Sometimes they're self-published, sometimes they're bestsellers.
There's a pretty big reason you probably should avoid this.
By probably, I mean definitely.
Ready for it?
Here goes...
No one describes themselves when they're telling a story. I don't care if you're writing in a journal or telling a story to someone face-to-face. If you've resorted to having your main character describe himself or herself, then back off for a second. Look at it through the eyes of another person.
And don't freaking do it.
Honestly, readers will picture a character any way they please, regardless of your input. Also, if that character absolutely has to take the time to describe how mind-blowing their eye color is, then they're at best self-absorbed.
And yes, I just snuck writing tips in. Deal with it.
5. "Are you German?/You look German..."/"You look like your name should be Helga."
Status: Bother/Back the heck away now.
The first two aren't so bad, except they don't make a whole lot of sense.
I went to Bob Jones University for college, and because of apparent nutritional deficiencies within fundamentalism, I was among the taller of the students there. Also, people from Michigan are short. So there's that.
Apparently being tall makes you German, in BJU-World.
Now, sure, it would make sense if I had actual blond hair and fit any stereotype whatsoever, but I have brown hair. Yes, I have blue eyes, but that particular trait is more indicitive of my actual ancestry, which is partly of the British Isles. And BJU people are really good at asking awkward questions, like if you're German because "you're so tall."
The Helga thing actually hurt a little. I'm not even sure where it came from, or what the intent was, but it was said with a derisive giggle, by people I didn't even know well. It bothered me because nothing about my clothes or hairstyle invited such a statement. In BJU-World, someone with the name "Helga," however inaccurate the perception, is heavy-browed and lumbering.
I already know I'm quite far from being pretty by anyone's standards, but this little incident was just one more reason I was glad to graduate and get away from there, mostly because people there were willing to say anything about you behind your back, as long as it's "good clean fun."
6. I have a history degree, so I just know tons about the Civil War.
Status: Confusing
'Cause I really don't.
I mean, I really, really don't.
I never took a single Civil War-focus class in all my four years of college. Heck, I only took one American history class beyond the required U.S. History classes. Most of my choices included the ancient world and the 20th century. My personal favorite choices were a study of Germany from 1933 to 1945 and World War II. I woulda taken a bazillion classes on the latter if I could.
My favorite century is the 20th. I like seeing how it all meshes together. I love seeing how everything, from technology to pop culture to warfare, changed in just 100 years. The 20th century is like no other.
'Bout the only thing I know about the Civil War is the correct pronunciation of Antietam. Call me negligent, but it wasn't what really captured my attention as I grew up. At some point in high school, WWII caught my eye and everything just unfolded from there.
7. "Well, you can do stuff giving blood, because you're taller/bigger/like a giant..."
Status: Really freaking annoying
I think I first noticed this in earnest a little while back, when I was discussing a blood drive with some people. Now, as I've said before, I'm not exactly petite. By that I mean that I am 5 feet, 9 inches tall.
Not exactly a giant, either.
See, when I was a baby, my white blood cells decided to go on a witch hunt. Like most witch hunts, it went badly, and my poor innocent red blood cells were being eaten in pretty great numbers. I imagine it looked somewhat like when the T-rex in Jurassic Park ate that goat. I had to receive a blood transfusion of packed red cells. That's a heck of a lot of A-positive blood types. The crisis was averted, and I am here today, delivering your daily-ish dose of snark.
So you could say that giving blood is close to my heart.* I've done it two times now in my lifetime, and I'm trying to get my fiance to do it so we can have an excuse to go out for a steak afterwards. I try to encourage people to give blood if they can, when the subject comes up.
The replies are always what really get me. I can see if someone just plain doesn't want to. I mean, if you're squeamish, that's fine. Or, alternatively, you can't, for whatever health reason.
The annoying part is when smaller people say stuff like "well, I'd just get sick and have to go to bed all day; you're a lot bigger than me, so you can afford to give blood."
Uhm, actually, no I can't. The average human has about 10 pints of blood. The range for women tends to be 8-10 pints. I have as much blood in my body as I'm supposed to; when I give a pint, it's a lot.
See, I have trouble gauging what "a lot of food" is. What seems to me like it might be a lot of food very likely isn't. The last time I gave blood, I'd had a good breakfast, but "eat a lot" for me, that day, meant adding a piece of toast, which, you might have guessed, isn't iron rich. Couple that with having an upset stomach sometime that morning. I was running on empty and decided to give anyway. For some reason, filling the bag didn't take as long the second time around. I'd estimate 5-10 minutes, which is short for a donation. I got pretty nauseous after that. If I actually bled a pint, it would make a mess.
So no, tiny people, actually, I can't just "afford" to do without a whole pint of my blood. It's not money. I can't save it up and decide to splurge on a trip to the Red Cross. So spare me the excuses and just be honest, okay?
So now you know.
And it probably explains a lot.
*I swear, that wording was an accident.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
'Bout to Get Real Here
Mildly Insightful's post from yesterday was truthful, concise, and intelligent. Just what I like in a blog post. It also concerned the controversial appointment of Chuck Phelps to the board of trustees at Bob Jones University. I went to that college. I invite you to visit Mildly Insightful to read it the post. I am not sure I could summarize it well enough. I can tell you, however, that the university used a chapel service to communicate that they are refusing to back down from their conviction that Mr. Phelps is the right man for the job, apparently.
After reading the post, I linked to it on my Facebook wall, commenting that this action does not surprise me in the least bit. Within a short time, a friend of mine posted a long counter-argument in a comment. People are only trying to criticize conservative Christians, he said, among other things. I've read this same argument in other places, so whatever. But the thing that caught my eye was the very beginning of the comment, where it was said that the university should have stayed away from Chuck Phelps, because they don't need anymore controversy.
Really?
Because this is how I would look at it. Whatever you believe, personally, about Chuck Phelps, Ernie Willis, and Tina Anderson, is irrelevant to others who don't know as much as you about the case. All an unbeliever or a new believer sees is that the university that claims to stand so firmly for the truth has a man, a pastor, on the board who didn't do all that he could when faced with the rape of a child by an adult.
At Bob Jones University, we as students were often reminded that what we do should not cause other believers to stumble in their faith. Far too often, this was applied to music or skirts or something.
If Bob Jones University proclaims that they stand for the truth, without apology, then what will people see when they realize who is now on the board of trustees? Many of the people criticizing the university aren't "liberal" Christians, or folks from seeker-sensitive fluff churches, or anyone else usually derided by the supporters of Phelps. The ones bringing criticism haven't left the faith. At this point I'm wondering if they didn't appoint Phelps to the board on purpose, to invite controversy, so that they can show how they're standing so strong against the attacks of the devil.
So, Bob Jones University. Is it worth it to cause a new believer to wander from the faith just so you can stand without apology for a faith that places the power of God in the hands of men? Is it worth it to drive unbelievers away from Christ so you can prove a point?
After reading the post, I linked to it on my Facebook wall, commenting that this action does not surprise me in the least bit. Within a short time, a friend of mine posted a long counter-argument in a comment. People are only trying to criticize conservative Christians, he said, among other things. I've read this same argument in other places, so whatever. But the thing that caught my eye was the very beginning of the comment, where it was said that the university should have stayed away from Chuck Phelps, because they don't need anymore controversy.
Really?
Because this is how I would look at it. Whatever you believe, personally, about Chuck Phelps, Ernie Willis, and Tina Anderson, is irrelevant to others who don't know as much as you about the case. All an unbeliever or a new believer sees is that the university that claims to stand so firmly for the truth has a man, a pastor, on the board who didn't do all that he could when faced with the rape of a child by an adult.
At Bob Jones University, we as students were often reminded that what we do should not cause other believers to stumble in their faith. Far too often, this was applied to music or skirts or something.
If Bob Jones University proclaims that they stand for the truth, without apology, then what will people see when they realize who is now on the board of trustees? Many of the people criticizing the university aren't "liberal" Christians, or folks from seeker-sensitive fluff churches, or anyone else usually derided by the supporters of Phelps. The ones bringing criticism haven't left the faith. At this point I'm wondering if they didn't appoint Phelps to the board on purpose, to invite controversy, so that they can show how they're standing so strong against the attacks of the devil.
So, Bob Jones University. Is it worth it to cause a new believer to wander from the faith just so you can stand without apology for a faith that places the power of God in the hands of men? Is it worth it to drive unbelievers away from Christ so you can prove a point?
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Fried Slice: Unparalleled Levels of Awkward
My brother mentioned recently that out of all the stories I told about my years at Bob Jones University, not one ever began with "hey, I once knew this one person who was completely normal." I realized that this is completely true. Granted, the average, every day person rarely ever makes a good character in a story, but it's absolutely amazing how many downright awkward people there are at Bob Jones University.
Now, I managed find and befriend some very normal, very awesome people, but for ever one regular individual, there are probably three who instantly make a room feel extremely uncomfortable. That's what this post's about: those wonderful folks who add a little awkward flavor to all of our lives.
The first semester of my senior year, I took a class for my creative writing minor called Writing for Children. The nice thing about a small university is that your classes also tend to be small, so our little band was able to be a little more casual and candid during the hour and fifteen minute sessions. In between workshops, projects, and lectures, we'd sometimes get to peruse and discuss children's literature. One morning, the teacher read Love that Dog by Sharon Creech, and we discussed it.
Now, I am personally convinced that many children's authors actually hate their intended audience, and Love that Dog pretty much confirmed this, because the much beloved dog dies in the book, and dies hard via a car. It made me feel sad for the little boy in the book. That's what good books do, however cruel they are: they make you relate to the character and feel some compassion for their hurts.
But not this one girl.
When the teacher read the part in the book where the dog dies, this one very nice but very awkward girl said, "BAHAHAHAHA!!! OH MY GOODNESS THAT WAS HILARIOUS!!! WASN'T THAT FUNNY GUYS?!"
If not in so many words.
As you can guess, no one else laughed. We sat there, looking around, all...awkward now. I mean, it's pretty well known that Old Yeller's death in his self-titled novel is not exactly a great moment of comedy.
I'm not sure where it comes from, but there is just something about a few of the students at Bob Jones University. Hand them a tragic story, and all of a sudden they turn into Michael Scott making a Chris Rock joke in front of Darryl and Stanley, and all of a sudden they feel it necessary to assure everyone that their friends are, indeed, ethnically diverse.
True story.
Now, I managed find and befriend some very normal, very awesome people, but for ever one regular individual, there are probably three who instantly make a room feel extremely uncomfortable. That's what this post's about: those wonderful folks who add a little awkward flavor to all of our lives.
The first semester of my senior year, I took a class for my creative writing minor called Writing for Children. The nice thing about a small university is that your classes also tend to be small, so our little band was able to be a little more casual and candid during the hour and fifteen minute sessions. In between workshops, projects, and lectures, we'd sometimes get to peruse and discuss children's literature. One morning, the teacher read Love that Dog by Sharon Creech, and we discussed it.
Now, I am personally convinced that many children's authors actually hate their intended audience, and Love that Dog pretty much confirmed this, because the much beloved dog dies in the book, and dies hard via a car. It made me feel sad for the little boy in the book. That's what good books do, however cruel they are: they make you relate to the character and feel some compassion for their hurts.
But not this one girl.
When the teacher read the part in the book where the dog dies, this one very nice but very awkward girl said, "BAHAHAHAHA!!! OH MY GOODNESS THAT WAS HILARIOUS!!! WASN'T THAT FUNNY GUYS?!"
If not in so many words.
As you can guess, no one else laughed. We sat there, looking around, all...awkward now. I mean, it's pretty well known that Old Yeller's death in his self-titled novel is not exactly a great moment of comedy.
I'm not sure where it comes from, but there is just something about a few of the students at Bob Jones University. Hand them a tragic story, and all of a sudden they turn into Michael Scott making a Chris Rock joke in front of Darryl and Stanley, and all of a sudden they feel it necessary to assure everyone that their friends are, indeed, ethnically diverse.
True story.
Monday, August 29, 2011
So This Whole Hurricane Thing...
All last week, I watched as the news networks and the Weather Channel all about had a collective fit because a hurricane was "headed straight towards New York." They warned the people of the Northeastern United States and feared the absolute worst for poor little old NYC.
Forget the fact that Hurricane Irene was gonna smack directly into a small, nearly unimportant area known as Eastern North Carolina.
And smack it did. I think the New Bern area took the worst of it, but Atlantic Beach, Nags Head, Wrightsville Beach, and a few other places definitely felt Irene.
And still, the entire day on Saturday, they still kept talking about New York. Even as the storm weakened and lost its status as an actual hurricane.
Even though North Carolina absorbed the brunt of it.
But you know, all this took be back a couple of years. Y'all know I went to Bob Jones University if you've read a couple of other posts. Inevitably, at some point during four-and-a-half years of college, it will snow/ice/freeze. Greenville is a close neighbor to Western North Carolina. Asheville North Carolina is an hour up the road. Greenville, however, is not in the mountains. It doesn't snow a whole lot, unless the winter is particularly freakish.
Big shock to y'all up in the Far Reaches, but we don't have a lot of snowplows down here. My town has maybe one or two. They're just not needed very much.Because ice is a smooth surface that greatly reduces friction and is a dangerous (sometimes deadly) surface to drive on, roads aren't exactly navigable. When it ices or snows, school closes for like a day, the town quiets, and people relax. (This rule generally applies throughout the entire Southern region.) Citizens play in the snow, or stay inside and read. They enjoy life. In a few hours, the ice/snow melts and life goes back to normal.
So all that time at college, I heard a lot of something that might have been good-natured ribbing, but sounded a lot like sour-faced griping. "Nobody knows how to drive down here." "I can't believe no one can drive on ice here." "We keep going to school in the snow, I can't believe it here." That's right folks, people actually complained about cancelled classes. (I can only imagine what their parents taught them about Santa Claus....) So, pretty much, for all of college (there's a whole lot of people from Michigan, Illinois, Ohio, and Pennsylvania that wind up at Bob Jones University, just saying...)* statements that should be considered merely factual observations often degrade into personal insults. Insinuations that only Neanderthals and similar primitive people not yet exposed to modern technology are unable to somehow overcome the laws of physics and drive with magical friction force-fields upon their tires abound. "Well, where I live, we know how to drive on ice." Good for you, buddy. Dream big.
See, this all came back to me when I observed that the Northeast was being all but coddled because *sniff* a hurricane's coming. I believe the words "disastrous" and "catastrophic" were thrown around some. Now, as I know hurricanes, catastrophic as a description doesn't usually apply unless you aren't prepared.
So let's put this into a fair perspective. If it never ices/snows in an area, there is little chance that one could learn to drive in those conditions. Southern winters are fairly mild, and unless it's a really cold year, we average about 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Occasionally it will get down into the 20s.** I can remember one year when it was 9 degrees F the week before Christmas. Even with temperatures that drop below 32 F, you have to have perfect conditions and an already cold ground in order to keep the white stuff sticking around. We're not prepared because we really never have to be, and one snow day for schools won't kill our economy.
I'm not a geography expert, but I do have a good idea of what the East Coast looks like. The most obvious feature?
Hang on, 'cause I'ma blow y'alls minds...
It's coastal.
Yeah, all those panicky areas stick out in the ocean. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Maryland, Jersey, New York, Boston, and Bangor. Hurricanes should not be a surprise. Yeah, they're rare, but y'all have a heck of a higher chance of getting a hurricane than we do a whole winter's worth of snow.
I think yeah, y'all deserve a little bit of ridicule. Good times.
*And I cannot begin to describe to you how much I don't really care about the Ohio vs. Michigan thing. I pull for the University of North Carolina. Your mention of the rivalry is likely to earn you a blank face.
**Yep, and that was the time the theater's heater was broken. It was like 20 degrees F outside with a very lovely wind that just made it so fun and bone-chilling. I wore a coat for the whole movie (New Moon, by the way) and huddled together with my boyfriend for warmth. I was also wearing knee socks under my jeans. It was disappointing mostly because I had on a really cute outfit that my otherwise wonderful pea coat hid.
Forget the fact that Hurricane Irene was gonna smack directly into a small, nearly unimportant area known as Eastern North Carolina.
And smack it did. I think the New Bern area took the worst of it, but Atlantic Beach, Nags Head, Wrightsville Beach, and a few other places definitely felt Irene.
And still, the entire day on Saturday, they still kept talking about New York. Even as the storm weakened and lost its status as an actual hurricane.
Even though North Carolina absorbed the brunt of it.
But you know, all this took be back a couple of years. Y'all know I went to Bob Jones University if you've read a couple of other posts. Inevitably, at some point during four-and-a-half years of college, it will snow/ice/freeze. Greenville is a close neighbor to Western North Carolina. Asheville North Carolina is an hour up the road. Greenville, however, is not in the mountains. It doesn't snow a whole lot, unless the winter is particularly freakish.
Big shock to y'all up in the Far Reaches, but we don't have a lot of snowplows down here. My town has maybe one or two. They're just not needed very much.Because ice is a smooth surface that greatly reduces friction and is a dangerous (sometimes deadly) surface to drive on, roads aren't exactly navigable. When it ices or snows, school closes for like a day, the town quiets, and people relax. (This rule generally applies throughout the entire Southern region.) Citizens play in the snow, or stay inside and read. They enjoy life. In a few hours, the ice/snow melts and life goes back to normal.
So all that time at college, I heard a lot of something that might have been good-natured ribbing, but sounded a lot like sour-faced griping. "Nobody knows how to drive down here." "I can't believe no one can drive on ice here." "We keep going to school in the snow, I can't believe it here." That's right folks, people actually complained about cancelled classes. (I can only imagine what their parents taught them about Santa Claus....) So, pretty much, for all of college (there's a whole lot of people from Michigan, Illinois, Ohio, and Pennsylvania that wind up at Bob Jones University, just saying...)* statements that should be considered merely factual observations often degrade into personal insults. Insinuations that only Neanderthals and similar primitive people not yet exposed to modern technology are unable to somehow overcome the laws of physics and drive with magical friction force-fields upon their tires abound. "Well, where I live, we know how to drive on ice." Good for you, buddy. Dream big.
See, this all came back to me when I observed that the Northeast was being all but coddled because *sniff* a hurricane's coming. I believe the words "disastrous" and "catastrophic" were thrown around some. Now, as I know hurricanes, catastrophic as a description doesn't usually apply unless you aren't prepared.
So let's put this into a fair perspective. If it never ices/snows in an area, there is little chance that one could learn to drive in those conditions. Southern winters are fairly mild, and unless it's a really cold year, we average about 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Occasionally it will get down into the 20s.** I can remember one year when it was 9 degrees F the week before Christmas. Even with temperatures that drop below 32 F, you have to have perfect conditions and an already cold ground in order to keep the white stuff sticking around. We're not prepared because we really never have to be, and one snow day for schools won't kill our economy.
I'm not a geography expert, but I do have a good idea of what the East Coast looks like. The most obvious feature?
Hang on, 'cause I'ma blow y'alls minds...
It's coastal.
Yeah, all those panicky areas stick out in the ocean. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Maryland, Jersey, New York, Boston, and Bangor. Hurricanes should not be a surprise. Yeah, they're rare, but y'all have a heck of a higher chance of getting a hurricane than we do a whole winter's worth of snow.
I think yeah, y'all deserve a little bit of ridicule. Good times.
*And I cannot begin to describe to you how much I don't really care about the Ohio vs. Michigan thing. I pull for the University of North Carolina. Your mention of the rivalry is likely to earn you a blank face.
**Yep, and that was the time the theater's heater was broken. It was like 20 degrees F outside with a very lovely wind that just made it so fun and bone-chilling. I wore a coat for the whole movie (New Moon, by the way) and huddled together with my boyfriend for warmth. I was also wearing knee socks under my jeans. It was disappointing mostly because I had on a really cute outfit that my otherwise wonderful pea coat hid.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
We're Doin' It Right (or just...you know...funner.)
My senior year of college was one where many a great thing was accomplished, such as my car actually making it to Greenville, South Carolina. And speaking of college.
Bob Jones University is a very interesting school. It's a fundamentalist (for all purposes very conservatively dressed Baptist) university with lots of rules and regulations and the occasional interesting happening, like Artist Series (which isn't the name anymore but whatever. Look it up.) During Artist Series, if the university doesn't put on an opera or a play (I saw a lot of Shakespeare...), they invite performers from outside the university to come and put on a show.
Since this post is partly about my senior year, I'll narrow in and focus on the two outside performers that I happened to see those two semesters: the Dallas Brass and the King's Singers.
I'm not crazy about brass music or choral music, at least not initially. I am not one to just sit and listen to classical music or barbershop quartets. That said, I was most unenthusiastic about seeing these dudes from Dallas who I thought had picked the most uncool instrument group (myself being a violinist). I looked forward to an evening of sheer boredom. But you know what? They came and they put on a show. They weren't just performers; they were showmen. They had fun and played some good stuff. Ever heard of Gabriel's Oboe? Look it up. It's from a movie called The Mission (which I have not seen) and shoot, I'm gonna use it in place of Wagner's Wedding March thing at my wedding. They played that. They brought brass music to life in a way that no one in or outside of Bob Jones University (brass heavy as they are) ever did. I laughed, I enjoyed music and the show that went along with it.
It being Bob Jones University, a true show just isn't enough. It has to be exotic. Which I think might be the reason for everyone at the school getting all excited and junk about The King's Singers, a group of men who, well, sing and were apparently god-like simply because they were British. So I was all "Eh, they might not be so bad, I'll give 'em a chance. Probably will be cool." After all, I am fairly certain that some of my fellow students would have gladly sold their first-born child for lunch and a private performance with these guys. They must be good, right?
Eh.
Yeah, they were good. Heck, they were very good. They had a high level of skill and didn't slip once on the notes or the timing or the pitch...Yeah, that's how exciting it was. They stood on stage and sang American folk songs and old spirituals and one thing I actually liked that was about South Africa and Dutch people. Or something. They stood. And sang.
That's about it.
All this to back up my oh so humble opinion...
Here we go, it'll blow yalls minds...
America is not Britain.
BaGOOSH. Am I right?
This is not an anti-Britain rant. Heck, I love Britain. My favorite show right now is Doctor Who* and could you even imagine an American version of Harry Potter?
Harry Potter and the Jersey Devil?
Naw, I'm good with Britain. I think our version of Top Gear is way better. I've been disagreed with, of course. But the British Top Gear? Yeah, old dudes driving. American? They drive and break stuff. Aw yeah.**
Somehow, somewhere, sometime, there was a mass movement of denying who you are and of graciously (ahem) informing others of how wrong they were. Possibly that's why we have hipsters. Liking tea doesn't make you globally minded or more polite or more intelligent. Please understand me, I like tea. It's great. It's delicious. What I don't like are the pretentious little tea shops here in the States that pretend they can steep low-quality paper-bagged tea better than I can.*** Maybe, instead of bragging of our love of tea and all the bands "no one's ever heard of" (even though they probably have), we could just chill. Like tea and like coffee. But just stop pretending.
Maybe we could finally realize that we gained independence from Britain years ago, like it that way ('cause they probably do too), and realize the potential of learning from something instead of trying to be it.
'Cause writers, if you try to be Jane Austen or Charles Dickens and try to squeeze their genius into your stuff and create a disastrous mash-up of the two with a 21st century half-reasoned message about "society and stuff" that cannot and will never belong in that world, your readers will spot it a mile away. But you go ahead and do what you want and write what you want. So guess what? You're not them, so prepare for your baby to be slid back on the shelf and given a remainder mark sometime in the very near future.
More on that tomorrow.
*Did not River Song's identity raise more questions than it answered? And how 'bout that beginning for a season? American conspiracy theory folklore as a plot? Brilliant. Really. Great stuff. I did not see that coming. The Silence are pretty much They, Them, and the Men in Black. Love it.
**Don't even play; you know it's fun.
***It's true. The lowest quality leaves end up in bags. It is easier, and I found that Lipton Spiced Chai was really good to my sore throat yesterday. It's also great iced.
Bob Jones University is a very interesting school. It's a fundamentalist (for all purposes very conservatively dressed Baptist) university with lots of rules and regulations and the occasional interesting happening, like Artist Series (which isn't the name anymore but whatever. Look it up.) During Artist Series, if the university doesn't put on an opera or a play (I saw a lot of Shakespeare...), they invite performers from outside the university to come and put on a show.
Since this post is partly about my senior year, I'll narrow in and focus on the two outside performers that I happened to see those two semesters: the Dallas Brass and the King's Singers.
I'm not crazy about brass music or choral music, at least not initially. I am not one to just sit and listen to classical music or barbershop quartets. That said, I was most unenthusiastic about seeing these dudes from Dallas who I thought had picked the most uncool instrument group (myself being a violinist). I looked forward to an evening of sheer boredom. But you know what? They came and they put on a show. They weren't just performers; they were showmen. They had fun and played some good stuff. Ever heard of Gabriel's Oboe? Look it up. It's from a movie called The Mission (which I have not seen) and shoot, I'm gonna use it in place of Wagner's Wedding March thing at my wedding. They played that. They brought brass music to life in a way that no one in or outside of Bob Jones University (brass heavy as they are) ever did. I laughed, I enjoyed music and the show that went along with it.
It being Bob Jones University, a true show just isn't enough. It has to be exotic. Which I think might be the reason for everyone at the school getting all excited and junk about The King's Singers, a group of men who, well, sing and were apparently god-like simply because they were British. So I was all "Eh, they might not be so bad, I'll give 'em a chance. Probably will be cool." After all, I am fairly certain that some of my fellow students would have gladly sold their first-born child for lunch and a private performance with these guys. They must be good, right?
Eh.
Yeah, they were good. Heck, they were very good. They had a high level of skill and didn't slip once on the notes or the timing or the pitch...Yeah, that's how exciting it was. They stood on stage and sang American folk songs and old spirituals and one thing I actually liked that was about South Africa and Dutch people. Or something. They stood. And sang.
That's about it.
All this to back up my oh so humble opinion...
Here we go, it'll blow yalls minds...
America is not Britain.
BaGOOSH. Am I right?
This is not an anti-Britain rant. Heck, I love Britain. My favorite show right now is Doctor Who* and could you even imagine an American version of Harry Potter?
Harry Potter and the Jersey Devil?
Naw, I'm good with Britain. I think our version of Top Gear is way better. I've been disagreed with, of course. But the British Top Gear? Yeah, old dudes driving. American? They drive and break stuff. Aw yeah.**
Somehow, somewhere, sometime, there was a mass movement of denying who you are and of graciously (ahem) informing others of how wrong they were. Possibly that's why we have hipsters. Liking tea doesn't make you globally minded or more polite or more intelligent. Please understand me, I like tea. It's great. It's delicious. What I don't like are the pretentious little tea shops here in the States that pretend they can steep low-quality paper-bagged tea better than I can.*** Maybe, instead of bragging of our love of tea and all the bands "no one's ever heard of" (even though they probably have), we could just chill. Like tea and like coffee. But just stop pretending.
Maybe we could finally realize that we gained independence from Britain years ago, like it that way ('cause they probably do too), and realize the potential of learning from something instead of trying to be it.
'Cause writers, if you try to be Jane Austen or Charles Dickens and try to squeeze their genius into your stuff and create a disastrous mash-up of the two with a 21st century half-reasoned message about "society and stuff" that cannot and will never belong in that world, your readers will spot it a mile away. But you go ahead and do what you want and write what you want. So guess what? You're not them, so prepare for your baby to be slid back on the shelf and given a remainder mark sometime in the very near future.
More on that tomorrow.
*Did not River Song's identity raise more questions than it answered? And how 'bout that beginning for a season? American conspiracy theory folklore as a plot? Brilliant. Really. Great stuff. I did not see that coming. The Silence are pretty much They, Them, and the Men in Black. Love it.
**Don't even play; you know it's fun.
***It's true. The lowest quality leaves end up in bags. It is easier, and I found that Lipton Spiced Chai was really good to my sore throat yesterday. It's also great iced.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Cultural Studies: The Beverage Debate (or stuff yall were wrong about...)*
So here's some insight into me. I went to college at Bob Jones University. Despite being located in Greenville, South Carolina, it is a) far from being a Southern college, b) a fascinating cultural study, and c) a help in affirming that I seriously love Eastern North Carolina.
So this topic came up a lot in college, and it comes up a lot elsewhere. I recently watched an episode of How the States Got Their Shapes, and I happened to watch an episode that focused on accents and regional vocabulary. We're all different. No surprise there, as the United States was settled by a very wide range of cultures. Obviously, we're all going to have a different name for carbonated beverages. However, they missed an important detail.
I'll back up. Starting in my teenage years, I first heard of the Great Debate, i.e. soda vs. pop. My youth pastor (who was from Indiana, went to college in Wisconsin, and had an accent straight out of Fargo), insisted that Coca-cola, Pepsi, Mountain Dew, and the like were to be called "pop." For the purposes of fun debate, I (and probably others) insisted that the correct name was "soda," and I proceeded to call it this for quite some time. Naturally, when I got to college, I encountered this friendly conflict among peers. Then a third contender entered the ring. Apparently, across much of the southern United States, all carbonated beverages are referred to as "Coke." Apparently a conversation will go as follows:
"What do you want to drink?"
"I want a Coke."
"Okay, what kinda Coke do you want?"
Or something like that.
Now, an explanation, as I found from the earlier mentioned show, could be that Coca-cola was birthed in Atlanta. Fair enough, but this is just too complex, at least to me. However, it continued to be spread around as a "Southern thing" all the time, and I'm sure that it is true for many people.
I'll throw in some accuracy for you, just to set all of yall straight.
The correct term is "drink."
If you are my cousin's two-and-a-half year old son, it is "dink."
I believe that this term originated with the term "soft drink." Naturally, it was shortened. For my entire life, until high school, I referred to carbonated beverages as merely drink. I have returned home to my original dialect. Life is good.
So, naw, I'm not gonna have any drink, I already brushed my teeth tonight. But cheers everybody.
*This post is meant in humor. If you take it personally, then I am truly sorry for you.
So this topic came up a lot in college, and it comes up a lot elsewhere. I recently watched an episode of How the States Got Their Shapes, and I happened to watch an episode that focused on accents and regional vocabulary. We're all different. No surprise there, as the United States was settled by a very wide range of cultures. Obviously, we're all going to have a different name for carbonated beverages. However, they missed an important detail.
I'll back up. Starting in my teenage years, I first heard of the Great Debate, i.e. soda vs. pop. My youth pastor (who was from Indiana, went to college in Wisconsin, and had an accent straight out of Fargo), insisted that Coca-cola, Pepsi, Mountain Dew, and the like were to be called "pop." For the purposes of fun debate, I (and probably others) insisted that the correct name was "soda," and I proceeded to call it this for quite some time. Naturally, when I got to college, I encountered this friendly conflict among peers. Then a third contender entered the ring. Apparently, across much of the southern United States, all carbonated beverages are referred to as "Coke." Apparently a conversation will go as follows:
"What do you want to drink?"
"I want a Coke."
"Okay, what kinda Coke do you want?"
Or something like that.
Now, an explanation, as I found from the earlier mentioned show, could be that Coca-cola was birthed in Atlanta. Fair enough, but this is just too complex, at least to me. However, it continued to be spread around as a "Southern thing" all the time, and I'm sure that it is true for many people.
I'll throw in some accuracy for you, just to set all of yall straight.
The correct term is "drink."
If you are my cousin's two-and-a-half year old son, it is "dink."
I believe that this term originated with the term "soft drink." Naturally, it was shortened. For my entire life, until high school, I referred to carbonated beverages as merely drink. I have returned home to my original dialect. Life is good.
So, naw, I'm not gonna have any drink, I already brushed my teeth tonight. But cheers everybody.
*This post is meant in humor. If you take it personally, then I am truly sorry for you.
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