In my previous blog, I referred to this philosophy called "ubuntu" without properly explaining it. Please allow me to do so briefly. Lately, I've become deeply interested in South Africa--and no, not just because "Invictus" just came out (although I did really enjoy that movie!). It is an African concept that basically says, "I can't be human without you." Desmond Tutu explains, "We think of ourselves far too frequently as just individuals, separated from one another, whereas you are connected and what you do affects the whole world. When you do well, it spreads out; it is for the whole of humanity." This speaks so much about the complexities of human relationships and so much about how God asks us to treat one another. That is what I want to explore in my writing. You, me, they, we, us--interconnectedness.
Shout out to Ben Berry--thanks for cluing (I can't believe that is the correct way to spell that word!) me in.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Meditations in a Crisis (well, not quite)
I was driving home from dinner with my dear friend Arielle last week when I was rudely reminded of something I had forgotten. At the corner of Judge Ely and Ambler, I got into a minor accident when I rear-ended the car in front me. Bummer. I followed the car until it pulled over on the side of the road, parked behind it, and switched on my hazard lights. A girl stepped out of the car. At that moment, "the car" ceased to represent an obstacle in my drive home and came to represent a life. I had forgotten about the lives in the other cars.
Before you freak out and call the DPS, demanding that my license be revoked, let me explain myself. I don't mean that I had forgotten that other people are in those other cars that fill the road beside me. I haven't been swerving and sliding down the roads, like an unstoppable moron with complete disregard for the physical lives of other drivers. I am well-aware that these other cars are not operated by robots. What I do mean is that I had forgotten about the life my fellow driver lives. While we were on the road, totally disconnected from each other by barriers of white stripes, stop signs, break lights, and steel frames, we were not aware of each others lives. I forgot she had plans for that night, just like me, and that they were disrupted by the night's unfortunate events. I forgot that she was listening to music that probably was not the same as the music I was listening to, and that she was phoning friends who I had probably never met while she sat in her car, waiting for the cop to arrive, just like me.
In short, I knew she had a life, but I didn't think about it being lived. I've been so wrapped up in myself, worried about, "Am I going to find a job? Where am I going to live?" and on it goes . . . I have forgotten the very thing that drives me as an educator, a friend, a daughter, and a Christian--my life is not about me. Just like George Eliot wrote, there is a roar on the other side of silence that is someone else's life, and I've gone deaf to it.
When the cop came along, I was written a ticket, obviously. But so was she. Her tags were expired. In that instant, I was reminded of "ubuntu." My actions had affected her life, and not in a positive way. I know I am not guilty for her tags being expired, but the fact still remains.
How deeply--and sometimes, shallowly--are we all connected. And how easily do we forget it.
Before you freak out and call the DPS, demanding that my license be revoked, let me explain myself. I don't mean that I had forgotten that other people are in those other cars that fill the road beside me. I haven't been swerving and sliding down the roads, like an unstoppable moron with complete disregard for the physical lives of other drivers. I am well-aware that these other cars are not operated by robots. What I do mean is that I had forgotten about the life my fellow driver lives. While we were on the road, totally disconnected from each other by barriers of white stripes, stop signs, break lights, and steel frames, we were not aware of each others lives. I forgot she had plans for that night, just like me, and that they were disrupted by the night's unfortunate events. I forgot that she was listening to music that probably was not the same as the music I was listening to, and that she was phoning friends who I had probably never met while she sat in her car, waiting for the cop to arrive, just like me.
In short, I knew she had a life, but I didn't think about it being lived. I've been so wrapped up in myself, worried about, "Am I going to find a job? Where am I going to live?" and on it goes . . . I have forgotten the very thing that drives me as an educator, a friend, a daughter, and a Christian--my life is not about me. Just like George Eliot wrote, there is a roar on the other side of silence that is someone else's life, and I've gone deaf to it.
When the cop came along, I was written a ticket, obviously. But so was she. Her tags were expired. In that instant, I was reminded of "ubuntu." My actions had affected her life, and not in a positive way. I know I am not guilty for her tags being expired, but the fact still remains.
How deeply--and sometimes, shallowly--are we all connected. And how easily do we forget it.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
On the Poets Walk in Central Park
Resting on a park bench, I think on the lives of poets
who gave this stretch of gravel its name,
marvel at the power of biology and imagination,
both flowing through space and time, down sinewy limbs
and bursting to life at the ends of pens cradled in hands.
Their words fell like seeds from the beaks
of greedy birds and took root in the dirt. Years passed
and their names grew tangled in the roots beneath the feet
of passersby like me. Though still today grand trunks
line the path and leaves form a ceiling for women and men
to rest shaded, baseball capped on park benches,
and wonder about things like old lovers, and the age of trees.
who gave this stretch of gravel its name,
marvel at the power of biology and imagination,
both flowing through space and time, down sinewy limbs
and bursting to life at the ends of pens cradled in hands.
Their words fell like seeds from the beaks
of greedy birds and took root in the dirt. Years passed
and their names grew tangled in the roots beneath the feet
of passersby like me. Though still today grand trunks
line the path and leaves form a ceiling for women and men
to rest shaded, baseball capped on park benches,
and wonder about things like old lovers, and the age of trees.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Update
I graduated this weekend! I am now the official holder of a Bachelor of Arts in English. Yay! My plans for the near future have been changing about as quickly as my outfit over the last couple of weeks, so here is the current, affirmed plan: I am staying in Abilene to get my teacher's certification. McMurry University has a Post-Baccalaureate Fast Track certification program which requires me to take 5 summer courses, and to student teach in the fall, and then--I'm done! After that, I may move up to Chicago if I am able to find a job up there mid-school year, or move back home and substitute teach until August 2010, by which point I should be able to secure a teaching job in Chicago.
I'll be getting certified to teach Secondary English/Language Arts, which I am SUPER excited about! A lot of people have been asking me if this is a default plan. To be honest, it is. If I had been able to secure a job in Chicago right out of school, you can bet I would have taken it. However, after applying for 20 or so jobs, ranging from basic retail to entry-level youth counseling/mentoring, I did not hear back from anyone--and it was two weeks before graduation! So I started to re-evaluate. I firmly believe in doing work that one finds meaningful, so I started to think about what I needed to do in order to put myself in a position to be offered jobs that I truly wanted--felt called to, even--work in. Since I was in high school, teaching has been a possibility that I've thrown around, but never committed to. I can't explain it without making it sound trite, so I'm just going to simply say it: I believe the Lord has placed a love in my heart for the written word, and a desire to positively shape the lives of young people, and teaching seems like the most natural culmination of these gifts. So I decided to do it. And its great, because I can teach anywhere. It can take me down the street, or around the world. It puts me in a position to serve and love young people who may not get what they deserve from other people in their lives. So is this really a default plan? No way!! I think its what the Lord wanted me to do all along; I was just too thick to see it.
Still, this in no way means that I will stop writing, or stop pursuing creative writing. I'm going to keep writing for myself, or for those who are willing to read and offer suggestions for me. And hopefully, someday sooner, rather than later, I will be in the financial position to go back to school for my MFA in creative writing. But until then, I'm excited about continuing to nurture that budding talent on my own.
So, if you are in Abilene anytime during the summer and fall of 2009, we should hang out! Cause I'm still going to be here, and I'm actually really excited about it!
I'll be getting certified to teach Secondary English/Language Arts, which I am SUPER excited about! A lot of people have been asking me if this is a default plan. To be honest, it is. If I had been able to secure a job in Chicago right out of school, you can bet I would have taken it. However, after applying for 20 or so jobs, ranging from basic retail to entry-level youth counseling/mentoring, I did not hear back from anyone--and it was two weeks before graduation! So I started to re-evaluate. I firmly believe in doing work that one finds meaningful, so I started to think about what I needed to do in order to put myself in a position to be offered jobs that I truly wanted--felt called to, even--work in. Since I was in high school, teaching has been a possibility that I've thrown around, but never committed to. I can't explain it without making it sound trite, so I'm just going to simply say it: I believe the Lord has placed a love in my heart for the written word, and a desire to positively shape the lives of young people, and teaching seems like the most natural culmination of these gifts. So I decided to do it. And its great, because I can teach anywhere. It can take me down the street, or around the world. It puts me in a position to serve and love young people who may not get what they deserve from other people in their lives. So is this really a default plan? No way!! I think its what the Lord wanted me to do all along; I was just too thick to see it.
Still, this in no way means that I will stop writing, or stop pursuing creative writing. I'm going to keep writing for myself, or for those who are willing to read and offer suggestions for me. And hopefully, someday sooner, rather than later, I will be in the financial position to go back to school for my MFA in creative writing. But until then, I'm excited about continuing to nurture that budding talent on my own.
So, if you are in Abilene anytime during the summer and fall of 2009, we should hang out! Cause I'm still going to be here, and I'm actually really excited about it!
Monday, April 6, 2009
Maya
So this is a "lyrical essay." Don't ask me what a lyrical essay is; I'm still trying to figure it out myself! (All of the italicized text is taken from Sanjay Patel's The Little Book of Hindu Deities)
Welcoming Committees
"In the beginning, while Vishnu slept in the infinite coils of the great serpent Sesha, it is thought that he dreamt up the creator god, Brahma, who emerged from Vishnu's navel already seated upon a perfect lotus flower. Brahma then began the work of creation, starting with the four yugas ... Each of these ages repeats 1,000 times in each cycle of creation, known as a Kalpa, which is then followed by the disillusion of the universe, known as Pralaya. It is believed that this all takes place within Vishnu's dream, which is our reality.
Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."
Upon deboarding my Hong Kong-Mumbai flight, I promptly made my way to the restroom, where I struggled to understand how to flush an Indian toilet. I gave up after several minutes and used my elbow to push my way out of the swinging door, ignoring the pleas for a tip from the frail, sari-wrapped restroom attendant, a gift-wrapped welcome present, my first official Indian acquaintance.
My traveling companions and I stumbled from a flurry of government forms and coolies chattering in Hindi into Mumbai’s slippery night air. Mangy dogs roamed the parking area, their tails curled like question marks, just like I imagined them. We clambered into a cab, and my first taste of India was the intense scent of marigolds and body odor. I kept the window rolled down for the duration of our ride to the hotel. My glasses fogged and Mumbai was veiled in a dense mist. It smelled of fish, fresh earlier that morning, left to spoil in the abandoned street markets, turmeric, chilies, and curry, wafting out through open windows, and cow dung heaped in holy piles on the side of the road. I was overwhelmed by the urge to vomit.
That night, I went to bed in the Hotel Grant, trying to stifle sobs on a worn-out mattress covered in itchy linens, of which I questioned the cleanliness. The street outside was lined with rubbish and beggars, whose moans I now imagine must have risen in through my barred window, but I did not care to hear them that night.
Yet, after several days, Hindi started to sound like musical notes tinkering off the tongues of train passengers, especially late at night when the words danced through the cars, left in the care of bony men beating out ancient rhythms on drums they held between their knees.
Rains
“It is said that good and evil forces are always battling for control of the world--the gods work to preserve the good, and the demons work to spread evil. Vishnu’s role in the great trinity is that of the invincible protector. Generally, when all is going well, good and evil are in balance. When things fall into chaos, however, Vishnu takes a trip down to earth to preserve justice. Sometimes he comes as himself, a blue four-armed
god ...”
I spent the fifth evening in the Hotel Grant hobbling between the restroom and my bed, my stomach retching with little success. A fever sent chilly tremors through my body while sweat soaked through my nightclothes.
I felt well enough the next day to venture out with my companions to the other side of the city, where we were to spend the evening with a family whom we had become acquainted with throughout the week. In the midst of our visit, the fever returned. I felt my body temperature climbing out of the confines of my punjabi suit. Despite the ever-present heat radiating through the thin walls, the chills set in, and I noticed Shakuntrala watching me from across the room.
The old family matriarch was perched on the bed with the end of her blue sari draped over her head. She smiled and patted the space next to her, the universal motion for inviting someone to sit beside you. I went. The tiny woman took my hand and drew it to her lap, placing her other hand on top of mine. Shakuntrala gently rubbed my hand, starkly white next to her leathery skin. She murmured to me in the language that I did not understand. I stared out the window and watched the monsoon, there to preserve the fertility of India's earth, drip down the leaves of the Banyan tree. The sunlight filtered through and diffracted into miniature rainbows, and India opened herself up to me. Or, maybe I opened myself up to her.
Elephants
"Shiva is one of the oldest gods of India and plays many important roles. He is a devout meditator and yogi, a cosmic dancer setting the rhythms of the universe, a benevolent protector and husband ... Some think that when Shiva finishes dancing, the world will come to an end ..."
We were traveling by rickshaw through Dadar, an area of the Mumbai that was popular with the city's upper-middle class. The air was so thick with moisture that my legs kept sliding off of the vinyl seats. As usual, our auto was stopped in a traffic jam, and I occupied myself by watching the foot traffic. There were men trickling in and out of a Hindu temple, from which a symphony of finger cymbals and chanting was pouring out onto the sidewalk. I strained my neck to see inside. It was about that time that one of my traveling companions shook my arm.
"Wasn't that elephant awesome?" he exclaimed.
"What elephant?" I said, searching the street for a sign of it.
"It was just right there," he motioned to the intersection before us. "Yeah, some guy was riding it through the street, for money I guess. It was painted."
I tried not to let my disappointment show. The temple elephant had been one of India's iconic images for me. I imagined what he must have looked like. He would have been gilded with golden paint, which would have woven an intricate design, like henna on a bride's foot, up from his hoof to the fuchsia, crushed velvet saddle on his back. There would have been giant, elephant-sized anklets jingling around his feet. His name would be Ganesha, for he would have been the son of Shiva, bringing luck to his devotees. He would have been a fairy-tale brought to life, but I had missed him.
Several days later, we were visiting an old palace of one of India's fabled maharajas. It was a well-known tourist spot, complete with a pair of camels and an elephant, available for rides around the palace grounds. I eagerly purchased my ticket and climbed the shaky ladder up to the elephant's back. The saddle was more like a cage, and it was not made of crushed velvet, fuchsia or any other color. His tusks had been roughly trimmed back, and they did not glisten like glossy ivory, but rather like yellowed teeth. There were cracks in his hide, and he trudged around the circular trail without barely lifting his magnificent head. I was suddenly very aware of the heavy camera around my neck and the traveler's checks stuffed in my pockets, my burdensome tourism that he bore around the countryside. When the ride finally ended, I climbed down with my own head, far less magnificent, hung low. I silently asked Ganesha for forgiveness.
That night, the trains were not alive with dancing.
"Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."
Maya
"In Hinduism, God is thought to be made up of three gods. This holy trinity is known as the Trimurti. The three forms of this trinity are the gods Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. Hindus believe that the gods within the trinity represent ... creation, preservation, and destruction."Welcoming Committees
"In the beginning, while Vishnu slept in the infinite coils of the great serpent Sesha, it is thought that he dreamt up the creator god, Brahma, who emerged from Vishnu's navel already seated upon a perfect lotus flower. Brahma then began the work of creation, starting with the four yugas ... Each of these ages repeats 1,000 times in each cycle of creation, known as a Kalpa, which is then followed by the disillusion of the universe, known as Pralaya. It is believed that this all takes place within Vishnu's dream, which is our reality.
Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."
Upon deboarding my Hong Kong-Mumbai flight, I promptly made my way to the restroom, where I struggled to understand how to flush an Indian toilet. I gave up after several minutes and used my elbow to push my way out of the swinging door, ignoring the pleas for a tip from the frail, sari-wrapped restroom attendant, a gift-wrapped welcome present, my first official Indian acquaintance.
My traveling companions and I stumbled from a flurry of government forms and coolies chattering in Hindi into Mumbai’s slippery night air. Mangy dogs roamed the parking area, their tails curled like question marks, just like I imagined them. We clambered into a cab, and my first taste of India was the intense scent of marigolds and body odor. I kept the window rolled down for the duration of our ride to the hotel. My glasses fogged and Mumbai was veiled in a dense mist. It smelled of fish, fresh earlier that morning, left to spoil in the abandoned street markets, turmeric, chilies, and curry, wafting out through open windows, and cow dung heaped in holy piles on the side of the road. I was overwhelmed by the urge to vomit.
That night, I went to bed in the Hotel Grant, trying to stifle sobs on a worn-out mattress covered in itchy linens, of which I questioned the cleanliness. The street outside was lined with rubbish and beggars, whose moans I now imagine must have risen in through my barred window, but I did not care to hear them that night.
Yet, after several days, Hindi started to sound like musical notes tinkering off the tongues of train passengers, especially late at night when the words danced through the cars, left in the care of bony men beating out ancient rhythms on drums they held between their knees.
Rains
“It is said that good and evil forces are always battling for control of the world--the gods work to preserve the good, and the demons work to spread evil. Vishnu’s role in the great trinity is that of the invincible protector. Generally, when all is going well, good and evil are in balance. When things fall into chaos, however, Vishnu takes a trip down to earth to preserve justice. Sometimes he comes as himself, a blue four-armed
god ...”
I spent the fifth evening in the Hotel Grant hobbling between the restroom and my bed, my stomach retching with little success. A fever sent chilly tremors through my body while sweat soaked through my nightclothes.
I felt well enough the next day to venture out with my companions to the other side of the city, where we were to spend the evening with a family whom we had become acquainted with throughout the week. In the midst of our visit, the fever returned. I felt my body temperature climbing out of the confines of my punjabi suit. Despite the ever-present heat radiating through the thin walls, the chills set in, and I noticed Shakuntrala watching me from across the room.
The old family matriarch was perched on the bed with the end of her blue sari draped over her head. She smiled and patted the space next to her, the universal motion for inviting someone to sit beside you. I went. The tiny woman took my hand and drew it to her lap, placing her other hand on top of mine. Shakuntrala gently rubbed my hand, starkly white next to her leathery skin. She murmured to me in the language that I did not understand. I stared out the window and watched the monsoon, there to preserve the fertility of India's earth, drip down the leaves of the Banyan tree. The sunlight filtered through and diffracted into miniature rainbows, and India opened herself up to me. Or, maybe I opened myself up to her.
Elephants
"Shiva is one of the oldest gods of India and plays many important roles. He is a devout meditator and yogi, a cosmic dancer setting the rhythms of the universe, a benevolent protector and husband ... Some think that when Shiva finishes dancing, the world will come to an end ..."
We were traveling by rickshaw through Dadar, an area of the Mumbai that was popular with the city's upper-middle class. The air was so thick with moisture that my legs kept sliding off of the vinyl seats. As usual, our auto was stopped in a traffic jam, and I occupied myself by watching the foot traffic. There were men trickling in and out of a Hindu temple, from which a symphony of finger cymbals and chanting was pouring out onto the sidewalk. I strained my neck to see inside. It was about that time that one of my traveling companions shook my arm.
"Wasn't that elephant awesome?" he exclaimed.
"What elephant?" I said, searching the street for a sign of it.
"It was just right there," he motioned to the intersection before us. "Yeah, some guy was riding it through the street, for money I guess. It was painted."
I tried not to let my disappointment show. The temple elephant had been one of India's iconic images for me. I imagined what he must have looked like. He would have been gilded with golden paint, which would have woven an intricate design, like henna on a bride's foot, up from his hoof to the fuchsia, crushed velvet saddle on his back. There would have been giant, elephant-sized anklets jingling around his feet. His name would be Ganesha, for he would have been the son of Shiva, bringing luck to his devotees. He would have been a fairy-tale brought to life, but I had missed him.
Several days later, we were visiting an old palace of one of India's fabled maharajas. It was a well-known tourist spot, complete with a pair of camels and an elephant, available for rides around the palace grounds. I eagerly purchased my ticket and climbed the shaky ladder up to the elephant's back. The saddle was more like a cage, and it was not made of crushed velvet, fuchsia or any other color. His tusks had been roughly trimmed back, and they did not glisten like glossy ivory, but rather like yellowed teeth. There were cracks in his hide, and he trudged around the circular trail without barely lifting his magnificent head. I was suddenly very aware of the heavy camera around my neck and the traveler's checks stuffed in my pockets, my burdensome tourism that he bore around the countryside. When the ride finally ended, I climbed down with my own head, far less magnificent, hung low. I silently asked Ganesha for forgiveness.
That night, the trains were not alive with dancing.
"Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."
Monday, March 23, 2009
First Night
This isn't a new poem. I haven't been writing poetry lately. But I have been thinking about India a lot lately, after seeing Slumdog Millionaire, and now that I'm reading a book about India. So I thought I'd share this. I wrote this last semester. During my trip to India, and even soon after, I tried to write poetry about it, but all of it was terrible. It was too cliche and trite. I think I had to be removed from the experience for a while before I could write about it.
First Night
“See Mumbai the beautiful with this map being helpful!”
- from a tourist map
The Hotel Grant is crumbling
on your first night in Mumbai.
The taxi wallah kept your change,
but you don’t know that yet.
It will be weeks before you understand
the exchange rate, the way things work
here, where the chai does not come iced
or sweet, and the rickshaws crowd
even your sleep.
On your first night in Mumbai,
you weep in the shower, beat
your fists against the geyser, and repeat:
“It’s not bad, just different.
Not bad, just different.”
Not bad like the curry that scorches your tongue,
or the deadly stench of fish
and leprous beggars, or the Delhi Belly
that ravages your body nightly.
Not bad like the mattresses,
as flat as the nasal voices of Bollywood
actresses, or the assaulting scent
of Ganapati flowers, and the popping
of skulls on funeral pyres
on your first night in Mumbai.
You don’t know this yet,
but on your last night in Mumbai,
you will cry because you know
how you will miss
fairytale elephants in the street,
naan dripping with ghee,
the barefoot children who greeted
you with happy Namastes,
brilliant saris and sparkling bhindis,
tablas and finger cymbals, all of it
dancing with you on the trains
on your first night in Mumbai.
First Night
“See Mumbai the beautiful with this map being helpful!”
- from a tourist map
The Hotel Grant is crumbling
on your first night in Mumbai.
The taxi wallah kept your change,
but you don’t know that yet.
It will be weeks before you understand
the exchange rate, the way things work
here, where the chai does not come iced
or sweet, and the rickshaws crowd
even your sleep.
On your first night in Mumbai,
you weep in the shower, beat
your fists against the geyser, and repeat:
“It’s not bad, just different.
Not bad, just different.”
Not bad like the curry that scorches your tongue,
or the deadly stench of fish
and leprous beggars, or the Delhi Belly
that ravages your body nightly.
Not bad like the mattresses,
as flat as the nasal voices of Bollywood
actresses, or the assaulting scent
of Ganapati flowers, and the popping
of skulls on funeral pyres
on your first night in Mumbai.
You don’t know this yet,
but on your last night in Mumbai,
you will cry because you know
how you will miss
fairytale elephants in the street,
naan dripping with ghee,
the barefoot children who greeted
you with happy Namastes,
brilliant saris and sparkling bhindis,
tablas and finger cymbals, all of it
dancing with you on the trains
on your first night in Mumbai.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Just a little freak out...
This post isn't any sort of creative writing. Its just me writing about my life. I'm feeling pretty frustrated right now, kind of like I'm flailing in the pool with just enough swim-knowledge to keep myself afloat, but not enough to get to the other side. The semesters until graduation have finally become months, and the months are now starting to become weeks. In case you don't already know, I decided a few months ago that I will move to Chicago. I'm super excited about this, albeit, pretty intimidated by the prospect of blizzards, frozen sidewalks, and traveling on foot through said conditions. But that's okay. I'll adapt. Everyone does, eventually. Right?
No, no. What's really got me imagining how pleasant an extra semester in Abilene could, in fact be, is this task of finding a job. There should be a class for this sort of thing that all graduating seniors are required to take. During your first semester at ACU, you are required to take a one-hour credit course referred to as the University Seminar, or U100. Its primary reason is to orient you with life as a college student. Most of us hated this class. I hated this class. But now, I'm wishing I could take a Real Life Seminar, or U400. During class meetings, we would discuss job-finding strategies, help each other write resumes, role-play in preparation for interviews, and so on. Sometimes, its pretty hard to find time in your schedule to do these time consuming things when facing the other demands of life as a graduating senior. And I'm not even one of those who are planning a wedding! You can tell that I've thought about this quite a bit. I could probably teach the class. That is, I could if I knew how to do all of that.
Anyhow, not only is finding a job a seemingly insurmountable task (I know that, in reality, it isn't. I know that after my first two jobs or so, finding a job will be just like any other thing I used to think I'd never figure out. Like cursive), deciding what kind of job I want to look for is a frightening challenge in itself. I've thought about several different sorts of things. Teaching, editing, publishing, media writing, dancing on bar counters (okay, that last one is a joke. Sort of). Some of these sound more appealing than others to me. But, as it turns out, I'm not particularly qualified for any of them. Nobody wants an English major graduating with only a bachelor's and no work experience in their field. Don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed being an English major, but unless you're going to graduate school or combining the major with another more marketable major, its worthless. But hey! If you've got a book you need read, send it my way! Why didn't someone stop me?!?! Oh, I'm sure I wouldn't have listened to you anyways.
All of that being said, there are a few rays of sunshine in the future of my employment. I hear back from Teach for America next week. Honestly, I'm still not positive that I want to work for TFA, but I am more positive about it than doubtful, so that's a good thing. I've also re-discovered non-profits, such as the Inspiration Cafe in Chicago, who I would love to work with. The only problem with non-profits is that they're usually small and don't hire very often. But if you know of any who are hiring, let me know!
Also, after a recent trip with Seekers to the juvenile detention center in Brownwood, I'm excited about the possibility of working for a detention center. Detention centers are in need of teachers, counselors, and other jobs of this type. After the poet Liza Jessie Peterson visited our campus and told us about working as a teacher of sorts in a detention center, I felt really inspired to find a similar career path. So, I've started talking with the chaplain at the center in Brownwood, and will hopefully start volunteering out there pretty soon. She said I can attend any of the activities they already have scheduled, or can meet one-on-one as a mentor, or even work with her to start my own program. Imagine how cool it would be if I were able to teach a writing workshop?! That is what I would really hope to do if I were employed by a juvenile detention center - to teach students about writing prose and poetry for therapeutic purposes. I'm trying not to get my hopes us too high about that, though. It is already March, and I graduate in May. I'm sure it would take a while to get something like that going. Still, the thought is really exciting!
I know most of you who may be reading this have probably already heard me rant about this countless times, and if you've actually read this the whole way through, I'm touched! I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need direction, and I'm open to suggestions. So if you have any, I would be thankful to hear them!
No, no. What's really got me imagining how pleasant an extra semester in Abilene could, in fact be, is this task of finding a job. There should be a class for this sort of thing that all graduating seniors are required to take. During your first semester at ACU, you are required to take a one-hour credit course referred to as the University Seminar, or U100. Its primary reason is to orient you with life as a college student. Most of us hated this class. I hated this class. But now, I'm wishing I could take a Real Life Seminar, or U400. During class meetings, we would discuss job-finding strategies, help each other write resumes, role-play in preparation for interviews, and so on. Sometimes, its pretty hard to find time in your schedule to do these time consuming things when facing the other demands of life as a graduating senior. And I'm not even one of those who are planning a wedding! You can tell that I've thought about this quite a bit. I could probably teach the class. That is, I could if I knew how to do all of that.
Anyhow, not only is finding a job a seemingly insurmountable task (I know that, in reality, it isn't. I know that after my first two jobs or so, finding a job will be just like any other thing I used to think I'd never figure out. Like cursive), deciding what kind of job I want to look for is a frightening challenge in itself. I've thought about several different sorts of things. Teaching, editing, publishing, media writing, dancing on bar counters (okay, that last one is a joke. Sort of). Some of these sound more appealing than others to me. But, as it turns out, I'm not particularly qualified for any of them. Nobody wants an English major graduating with only a bachelor's and no work experience in their field. Don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed being an English major, but unless you're going to graduate school or combining the major with another more marketable major, its worthless. But hey! If you've got a book you need read, send it my way! Why didn't someone stop me?!?! Oh, I'm sure I wouldn't have listened to you anyways.
All of that being said, there are a few rays of sunshine in the future of my employment. I hear back from Teach for America next week. Honestly, I'm still not positive that I want to work for TFA, but I am more positive about it than doubtful, so that's a good thing. I've also re-discovered non-profits, such as the Inspiration Cafe in Chicago, who I would love to work with. The only problem with non-profits is that they're usually small and don't hire very often. But if you know of any who are hiring, let me know!
Also, after a recent trip with Seekers to the juvenile detention center in Brownwood, I'm excited about the possibility of working for a detention center. Detention centers are in need of teachers, counselors, and other jobs of this type. After the poet Liza Jessie Peterson visited our campus and told us about working as a teacher of sorts in a detention center, I felt really inspired to find a similar career path. So, I've started talking with the chaplain at the center in Brownwood, and will hopefully start volunteering out there pretty soon. She said I can attend any of the activities they already have scheduled, or can meet one-on-one as a mentor, or even work with her to start my own program. Imagine how cool it would be if I were able to teach a writing workshop?! That is what I would really hope to do if I were employed by a juvenile detention center - to teach students about writing prose and poetry for therapeutic purposes. I'm trying not to get my hopes us too high about that, though. It is already March, and I graduate in May. I'm sure it would take a while to get something like that going. Still, the thought is really exciting!
I know most of you who may be reading this have probably already heard me rant about this countless times, and if you've actually read this the whole way through, I'm touched! I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need direction, and I'm open to suggestions. So if you have any, I would be thankful to hear them!
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