Blah, blah, blog

Thoughts on HUQP, plus some literary allusions.

2011-03-05T06:27:00.000-08:00

"What would happen if one woman [homosexual] told the truth about her [his/her] life?
The world would split open."-Muriel Ruykeyser

There's been quite a stir at my alma mater, Harding University, over the recent publication of a zine (I guess that's what the kids are calling it these days) which details the experience of 'queer' (LGBT) students at a staunchly conservative Christian university. Read their beautiful work here.

For the record, no one has asked me to comment on this--for the record, I would be flattered if someone did. I know no one is clamoring to hear what I have to say, yet I feel compelled to comment nonetheless. Why? I don't know. It's probably not the most prudent move, considering my current employment. Perhaps, as a proudly identifying feminis t, I too feel like an outlier in Christian community. Don't misread me: I by no means intend to the equate the two--it's still less revelatory to declare that God is not exclusively male than to declare that maaaaybe God doesn't want gay people pretending to be straight, or just sucking it up and living lives without love.

The quote I posted above has been something of a lightning rod in my feminist journey, and I believe it serves the same purpose in this sticky, uncomfortable conversation. Like it or not, gay students are telling the truth.

But why is this particular conversation so uncomfortable? I don't have the answers, but to this I can speak my truth. I believe that, deep down, most people--perhaps many, if not most--really don't see anything wrong with being gay. You can answer for yourself if this describes you. We probably all know someone who is gay, if not outwardly so. And we love these people. They are our friends, our fellow worshipers. In my case, they were my fellow chorus members, my costars in the high school musical. They were gay. They just were. You knew it, and I knew it. Maybe they came from broken homes with absent fathers, so you could explain away their orientation to some defect in familial upbringing. Maybe they had two loving hetero parents, who were Christians, even....those were a bit harder to grapple with.

Deep down, you knew they would never be straight. You would not wish for them to marry a member of the opposite sex in some sham of a marriage that would silently kill the souls of both partners.

Neither would you wish for them to live alone. Just as you would not wish this for yourself.

And yet, there it is, in black and white: 1 Corinthians. Romans 1. Plus the Old Testament, but that also has tons of craziness which we don't do anymore, so we leave that out of the conversation. New Testament, though....that sticks. That hurts.

What does Jesus have to say about gay people? Well, where black-and-white speaks, black-and-red does not. Jesus is silent on the issue of homosexuality. He has more to say on the issue of divorce....and yet I do not see any Christians get up in arms over this sticking point, as I do not see the heartbroken condemnation of "divorced Christians" groups which have become something of a trend in more progressive churches. (Perhaps you have, in which case, at least Christians are being consistent). But I digress.

I have a long quote from Walt Whitman hanging up on my classroom wall, which admonishes the reader, among other things, to " re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, [and] dismiss whatever insults your own soul." Considering the school where I teach, it's a bit radical (but it was passed down from another teacher. So perhaps English teachers are just mavericks, or more probably, no one really reads those posters anyway).

Is it blasphemy for me to refuse to condemn homosexuality because doing so "insults my soul"? Is it heretical to deny love to others who are not me because they love someone whom certain passages of Scripture say they should not love (at least not sexually)?
(*Of course, there are different ways of reading Scripture. I don't have the education on this particular issue to outline them here, but many gay Christian scholars who know much more than me have done so. And before you scream heresy, keep in mind--we re-interpret other passages of Scripture which we do not find appealing all the time).

I don't know. Maybe it is. But I just can't. Perhaps this makes me a bleeding-heart liberal heretic; I choose to believe that it just makes sense. I don't want to serve any god which makes me go against my soul, against the very marrow of my bones. Furthermore, I suspect you don't, either.

The whole "gay question" often makes me think of what is perhaps the defining passage of Huckleberry Finn, a passage which is almost universally applauded and championed by readers and English teachers alike (yes, including those at Harding). I can't detail the events leading up to the passage, mainly because I don't remember them. But the crux of it is this: Huck is in trouble, and he reckons that his quandary is God's punishment for his sins, which include among them helping Jim, a black man and former slave--his friend--out of slavery. (I believe it is absolutely worth noting that, not that long ago, the Bible was widely used to justify racism and slavery).

Huck wrestles with his conscience, and even writes a letter to Jim's former owner which would sell him out. In his mind, he has two options: turn in Jim and be clean with God, or obey his soul and help his friend--and probably go to hell. Here are his thoughts after he writes the letter:

I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking - thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And got to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me all the time: in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking and singing and laughing. But somehow I couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. I'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n, 'stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog; and when I come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and suchlike times; and would always call me honey, and pet me, and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had smallpox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the only one he's got now; and then I happened to look around and see that paper.

It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a-trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself:

"All right, then, I'll go to hell" - and tore it up.

Good Lord, that's beautiful.

I know many people who read this will disagree with me. I expect it, and encourage it, even. I know many will wonder at my audacity. If that's you, I suppose we are at an impasse, because neither one of us is going to change the other's mind. Perhaps it's audacious and sinful to post this to begin with. Perhaps I'm just tired of Christian morality, at least in climate of the Bible belt, being almost entirely relegated to the margins of society--i.e., people who are gay and women who get abortions.

Please know that I am not trying to make myself higher than God, or encourage revolt against Scripture. Or maybe I am....I don't really know. I guess I'm just trying to be honest, and trusting that there is grace enough to do so. Because one thing's for sure: this issue will never go away, and we might as well stop wishing that it will. I pray that we can re-imagine the role of gays in God's kingdom in a way that is vital and real, and absent of facades that slowly, slowly rot the soul.

I pray that you, dear reader, will do the same.

Still here.

2011-02-05T19:25:00.001-08:00

I haven't posted in a really long time.
I don't really have anything to say now, either.
I did, however, see this band last night. I really like this song. Perhaps you will too.
It's a start.

Flying Solo

2010-04-05T06:39:00.000-07:00

When I was in eighth grade I wrote a story about a fictional grandmother who traveled the world. This (in the story, my) grandmother, two years widowed, used travel as a means to embrace life after the loss of her husband. I was constantly getting her exotic souvenirs in the mail--a piece of the Berlin Wall, ceremonial masks from Africa, prayer beads from Tibet. I illustrated the story with snapshots from her adventures--Grandma beside the Dalai Lama, waving enthusiastically at the camera; Grandma shading her eyes and beaming before the Leaning Tower of Pisa. My teacher (no spring chicken herself) loved it, and I loved creating her--she was eighty-something and absolutely alive, and I sent her off to places that I could only then dream about.

I've been thinking about that story a lot lately, which has everything to do with the fact that I'm about to travel solo for the first time. I love how--without realizing it, of course--at twelve years old, I fictionalized the woman that I one day hoped to be: bold, adventurous, resilient, and most of all, able to keep company with herself. It's funny and perhaps weirdly prescient that I wrote the grandma without a backpacking buddy. That kind of independence inspired me, yes, but seemed completely alien to me as well, being a) twelve and b) one half of a fertilized egg.

Thus, you see how, with a sister succumbing to love and marriage, that exploring life alone (no, not alone, alone sounds depressing--independently) is a fairly new endeavor for me. And while I admit that I often envy my sister's seamless transition of partners--twin to husband--it is a bit exhilirating, this learning to do life by myself. To be known as Jess, and not part of some package deal. And to figure out what on earth all that means.

I've imagined myself as a lot of different people by now. When I went away to a Christian college, I was going to become the most amazing Christian. I would lose my self-consciousness in worship and evolve past my spiritual A.D.D. I was also going to date a lot, because that's what you do at Christian college, and because my high school awkwardness had to be worth something. When I studied a semester in Italy, I was going to be popular. I was going to make lifelong friends easily and for once feel like I wasn't craning my neck towards the cool kids' lunch table. When I went to Rwanda I was going to become a tanned, earthy goddess. I would feel beautiful, at one with God and nature, and surround myself with laughing orphans.

Life is nothing if not ironic: as I write this now, from the messy room in which I grew up, I feel myself becoming more than I ever did with all those of changes of scenery. But of course, they all played their part too.

I can't explain it, but it is deeply satisfying to know, with so much still up in the air (beliefs, career, etc), that I am different. This limbo in which I find myself is proving quite formative, if not outwardly productive. Uncertainty disarms and recreates, perhaps more effectively than any backdrop change ever could.

It is quietly intoxicating, to feel yourself becoming who you are--even if it's not exactly any of the selves you once imagined. I'm just happy now to bear some resemblance to the old woman I invented when I was twelve.

What Are You Laughing At? No. Really.

2010-01-24T11:38:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: this gets a little preachy. Read it anyway.

The other day, I innocently approached a conversation two friends were laughing over, hoping to join in the joke. Almost immediately, I wished I'd stayed away.

The topic of conversation? Women jokes.

"...why are women's feet smaller than men's? So they can stay closer to the oven."

"Oh, I love women jokes," chimed in the second participant, who was, to my profound sadness, a woman. "You want to hear a funny joke? Women's rights."

They continued in that vein for awhile ("Why did the woman cross the road? Doesn't matter, she shouldn't have been out of the kitchen"; "What do you do if your dishwasher stops working? Beat her") as I awkwardly stood to the side, stone-faced and silent, the dreaded stereotype that I trip over myself to avoid: the Feminist With No Sense of Humor.

The thing is, I like and respect these two people very much. I don't think they would have continued if they knew their jokes honestly upset me. And I understand, from the female perspective, the urge to sell out your own sex, to be in on the joke--to be "one of the guys." I not only understand it; I've done it. I've ignored the sting of these barbs--the iceberg of truth buried beneath the punchline--and betrayed my femininity by one-upping the joke teller in misogyny. And I've cruelly laughed at far too many jabs told at the expense of other races and/or minorities.

But--what to say?--I just don't think I can do that anymore.

This goes far beyond the "woman thing," but that is where my story begins, so I'll start with that. And--hold on to your hat-- I'm going to use a word (again) that makes a lot of people very uncomfortable: "feminist." Over the past six months or so, I have been, with the aide of a few beautiful female trailblazers, reclaiming that particular f-word, and what it means for myself and the planet. (Interestingly, as a little girl I was a very vocal feminist. I stopped when I learned that that was a bad thing). I have surprised even myself at the depth with which this word has resonated in my heart, and befuddled many of those close to me with my ostensibly sudden passion on the subject. (It must be said, though: a number of people--men, even--have cheered me on in this awakening, or whatever you want to call it. To those people, God bless you). I don't know who reads this blog anymore, so I hope what I'm about to say won't give offense, but a lot--a lot--of my baggage concerning women has to do with the church (and I know about a dozen women who could heartily "amen" that). I don't want to get into biblical doctrine, but when little girls grow up digesting that the spiritual heavy lifting is a boy's job, that little boys can lead prayers and little girls can't, that boys grow up to lead and girls grow up to support the boys, something profoundly damaging happens to the female psyche. She grows up internalizing the message that boys are just more valuable to God--God, the King and Father: the ultimate Him. The level to which this subjugation lies buried in the heart of every good church daughter varies, but to any woman who grew up in this paradigm--in which her voice and ideas were relegated to the periphery of the church experience--I don't see how it can't exist.*

And the marginalization of women in church, though damaging, is by far one of the kinder, gentler faces of gender discrimination. Aside from the domestic abuse in our own backyards, the brutal misogyny accepted as standard operating procedure in so much of the developing world is enough to shatter your heart a thousand times over. Girls kidnapped and trafficked into sex slavery, women raped and then killed by their own families in the name of honor, infanticide of value-less baby girls--I could go on,** but you get the idea.

The cries of these women and girls simply makes it impossible for me to laugh at beating a woman dishwasher.

I read the following quote in a wonderful book*** recently, and it's about the truest thing I can think of right now:

"The quality of our laughter is a measure of our sanctity. It tells us how we feel about others. It tells them, too."

So, I'll ask it again...what are we laughing at? Specifically, whom are we laughing at? And would we still laugh if we considered the subjects of our laughter, in all of their beauty and scars, insecurity and individuality?

Would you tell a woman joke to your sister, your mother, your lover, your friend? And, if she laughed, would the smile reach her eyes?

This isn't about feminism, or racism, or any other ism. This is simply about operating from a place of love and respect for all of our brothers and sisters. For, in the words of the eminently quotable Joan D. Chittister, "Feminism makes humans of us all."

It may not seem like much, but the surest way I know to distance ourselves from each other is to trivialize a fellow human being's experience. And the surest way I know to do that is to laugh at it.

I don't pretend to be perfect, and I certainly don't pretend that residing on the higher plane of empathy will always be easy, or even desirable. But, honestly--what's the other option?

* If any of this strikes a chord with you, please, run don't walk to your nearest bookstore or library and pick up this book. Warning: you will not be the same after you've read it.

**This book does go on. Read it, get angry, get inspired, and get involved.

***Heart of Flesh by Joan D. Chittister. A bit dense, but completely worth the effort.

A Love Letter to Conan O'Brien.

2010-01-23T07:44:00.000-08:00

Anyone who's known me longer than five minutes knows about my love for, my adoration for, my--okay, let's just call it what it is--obsession with Conan O'Brien. Not since my second grade love for Matt Medina (a fifth grader who, it must be said, has not aged well) has a redhead so captured my heart. So, as you can imagine, the recent NBC late night drama has captivated me in a way that I'm not particularly proud of, considering that the devastation in Haiti has highlighted the truth there actually is miserable suffering in the world, and the fate of one gangly multi-millionaire comedian is ultimately pretty unimportant. So...there's that.
But.
At the risk of sounding trivial, I want to pay tribute to the man who has kept me up so many nights, and put a huge smile on my face for the better part of the last decade. There really is not a way to say that without sounding dirty.

I can't remember when exactly I began watching Late Night with Conan O'Brien, but I do remember this--it was some time in the 7th or 8th grade, and it was before I knew how to make coffee. Actually, it was before I even drank coffee. A simpler time. I call it B.C. I don't really call it that. Anyways, I know this because I would stare at the remaining dregs in our Mr. Coffee carafe, wishing to God I knew how brew a fresh pot--or better yet, enjoyed the taste--because I needed to stay up another two hours to obsess over some social studies diorama of Ancient Egypt, or something, as was my middle school way. So, without that bitter fuel to inject my decidedly-more-Type-A self with the necessary second wind, I turned on the television. Then, one night, I turned the channel to Conan.

This may seem completely unremarkable to you, but writing this just made me realize: I've been watching Conan longer than I've been drinking coffee. A notable milestone, considering that I now drink, on average, 17 cups of Joe a day, in addition to bathing in it nightly.

Conan came on like a strong gust of wind after what I would come to know as the reassuring banality of Jay Leno--full of manic energy, absurd characters, and disarming wit. He was tall, whip-smart, ridiculous, literary (fun fact: he did his Harvard thesis on Flannery O'Connor and William Faulkner), self-deprecating, and gloriously pale--in short, all of my favorite things. And he drove a '92 Ford Taurus. I don't remember the first bit I ever saw on Late Night, but I do remember the first thing I ever talked about the next day--an absurdist and wholly appropriate take on the then-phenomenon of boy bands in a sketch called "Dudez-A-Plenti."

Dudez-A-Plenti

Susie | MySpace Video

And thus, a personal hero was born. Conan was my first-ever personality litmus test, a role that would later be filled by Christopher Guest, Lord of the Rings, and NPR. Liking him automatically made you cool in my book. Consequently, liking Leno made you stupid.

Throughout the years, Conan would be with me during the hard times...like the night of my first run-in with the law. After leaving a chorus rehearsal very, very disgruntled, I was caught doing 60 in a 35. I was 16, and stupid, and everyone does 50 on that road anyway, but that's not the point. I came home sobbing inconsolably, miserable at the magnitude of my own idiocy. Eventually, though, I mellowed out, and turned on Late Night, because that's just what I did. I don't remember anything about that show, but I do remember laughing hysterically and feeling better almost instantly. It's so silly now, but there it is: Conan just made things better.
A few years down the road, Preparation H Raymond would help me get through those nasty prostitution charges. Ahh, the power of laughter.

As time went on, my love only grew. Characters like Vomiting Kermit, the Coked-Up Werewolf, Pimpbot, the Fed-Ex Pope, the Sports Fan, and The Interrupter; bits like "In The Year 2000" and the "Walker Texas Ranger Lever"--all of these became an integral part of my lexicon. (And yes, that was just an extremely transparent excuse to link those clips. Watch them all, then proceed). I started an innumerable number of sentences with, "Last night, on Conan..." I vividly remember hosting animated discussions on the brilliance of Late Night vs. the comedy graveyard of Leno's Tonight Show in my AP Macroeconomics class. (I had a cool economics teacher). I daydreamed about making it to a taping of Late Night before he wrapped it up and I begrudgingly--but proudly--surrendered him to the big bright lights of Hollywood and the Tonight Show. I more-or-less forced both of my college roommates (and anyone else in my room after 11:30 PM (thank you, Central Time Zone)) into watching, and subsequently loving, Conan along with me (a legacy I can surely be proud of). And yes, on a fundamental level, I suppressed the worry that my immense fondness for a late night talk show host was indicative of some latent personality disorder. Incidentally, a dream that I gave birth to a baby with Conan's head did not do much to allay my fears.

I'd rather not have this analyzed.

Admittedly, my viewership has waned in recent years. Graduating college and living in Africa for ten months kind of does that to you. And though, upon my return to the States, I was irrationally proud of little Conesie, all grown-up and hosting the Tonight Show -- not to mention happy to go to bed an hour earlier, since apparently graduating college made me age twenty years-- I also couldn't help feeling that my little secret was now out. I remained fiercely loyal despite the low ratings, and couldn't help but feel that if people actually prefer the Chin to the Hair, then people are actually stupid and terrible. (Prove me wrong, universe).

But the people--or moronic NBC executives--have spoken, I guess. Despite the legions of fans chanting, the vein of Nick Carraway, that O'Brien is "worth the whole damn bunch put together," it's goodbye, for now. So, what else to do, except compose an excessively rambling valentine to the man of the hour, in a forum that he has not the remotest chance of stumbling across, and say...thanks. For staying classy, ridiculous, hilarious, and genuine. Making people laugh ultimately isn't very imporant, after all. But to the people laughing...it somehow is.

And Fox...getsa steppin'.

When words fail

2010-01-19T16:41:00.000-08:00

An older woman came by the drive-thru at the Starbucks where I work today. (I work at Starbucks now, if you didn't know). Her eyes were glassy as I took her money, her cheeks flushed, and sadness like gravity pulled down the corners of her mouth. I kept a curious eye on her through the window as her drink was prepared, wondering what was breaking her heart.

As I handed her her drink, I smiled, and hollowly commanded her to "have a nice day," as if that means anything and as if she could, because that's all I know how to do. Her voice cracked as she said "thank you," and she drove away in tears.

I couldn't ask her what was wrong; I couldn't cry with her; I couldn't hold her hand. All I could offer were empty words, and watch her drive away.

Mother God, be near to the broken-hearted.

Gotta be the eyes.

2009-11-17T08:49:00.000-08:00

There is a certain running theme to comments about my appearance/behavior made by new acquaintances. That is this: to the casual observer, I appear to be constantly stoned.

This pictures is far too disgusting to display my whole face.

As irony would have it, I've never been high in my life. I attribute this misconception to what I like to call the Merrill Deadeye. Observe:

Brother Paul

and

Sister Jenn, still managing to look sorta high despite the presence of glasses.

I really can't comment on the behavior aspect of this observation. (At least I seem happy...?)

I'm not sure how, but I'm certain I can make this stoner-chick persona work to my advantage.

Waiting for LaMontagne.

2009-11-16T11:41:00.000-08:00

How do you come down from a concert high, once the last note has been sung, and the last bow taken?

You buy your tickets months beforehand. You prep for the concert days in advance, via an increasingly-exclusive Itunes rotation. You try on about two dozen outfits, attempting to perfect the adequate balance of hip-yet-effortless; belonging-yet-separateness; in-the-scene-but-not-OF-the scene. (Other people must do this). And for a few short hours, you are hypnotized--in the Actual Presence of the Actual Person, and all is right with the world.

And then, just like that, it's over. The roadies are dismantling the stage, and Ticketmaster is raising evil eyebrows and malevolently rubbing its hands together for managing to charge you 40% of the actual ticket cost in fees (probably).

One needs a transition from the sanctuary of the concert hall to the profane outside world. Theme parks get this; that's why you go through gift shops after you ride roller coasters.

And that's why I and about two dozen other Ray Lamontagne fans stood vigil for close to two hours outside the stage door of the Fox Theater stage door, unable to let go, hoping against hope for the chance to meet our idol.

Okay, "meet" is too strong of a word. Ray is notoriously shy and awkward with fans, and God help you if you try to take his picture. If not for my brother's goading ("sis, you gotta try"), I would never have had the presumption to wait for his appearance in the first place. But as it was, perhaps against my better judgment, I reversed my steps from the parking lot to the stage door, unarmed with autograph-able memorbilia or flash photography, hoping only, as I put it to my fellow waiters, to "bear witness."

I imagine that other music fans have this dilemma. You want badly to connect with the performer in a direct way; you want to cross their radar if only for one moment in time, even if afterwards you are immediately forgotten. You search for the appropriate words to convey the depth of your appreciation while simultaneously maintaining an unflappable, un-freakfanlike demeanor. Or, if you're a drunk middle-aged woman, you shout "Take if off, Raaaaaaaaaaaaay!" in the lull between songs. Whatever. My point: there's a certain amount of intoxication bred from proximity to a favorite artist or band, and the prospect of narrowing the gap even further can be downright impossible to resist.

But back to the stage door. I planted myself by the brick wall of the theater, slumping down and making myself as small as humanly possible. It was an odd reckoning of conscience--if I was going to make Ray nervous with my presence when he emerged from the door, I was going to do it in the least offensive way possible. I would not speak to him, I would not take my camera from my purse; I would relegate myself happily to his peripheral vision.

And if he happened to look at me, I would arrange my face into the picture of dignified gratitude and steely grace. Think Gordon Bombay in a freeze frame from his immortal "Ducks Fly Together" speech.

Fulton Reed from Stillwater, Minnesota gets it.
Seriously, just watch this video right now. You can get back to the blog.

Eventually a camaraderie formed amongst the Stage Door Crew (which, it must be said, was mostly dudes. With cheap imitation beards. And man-crushes). We relived moments of the concert, learned each others names and Other Favorite Bands, and nervously practiced our opening lines.

"Dude, do you think it would be lame if I said this?" the collegiate-looking guy directly in front of me mused to his friend. " 'I just want you to know that you're my hero. ' Would that be too gay?"

"No man, go for it."

As the night wore on into early morning and the crowd thinned, lines were reworked, and ultimately scratched ("Ah, forget it man. I'm just gonna say 'Thanks.' He'd get that, right?")

The crowd easily fell into two camps: Those Who Had Ray's Best Interests at Heart vs. Those Who Were Holding Cameras. Those of us from Camp A disdainfully cast judging glances at Camp B, which broadly consisted of women with spray-tans, high-heels, and noticeably dyed hair. Obviously, these exploitative opportunists had no right to be there.

"Guys," Camp A ventured to caution, "he reeeaaallly doesn't like cameras. Those will just make him nervous."

Warnings like this made it hard not to feel like we were waiting for the emergence of Punxsutawney Phil. If Ray pokes his head out and sees a camera, he will retreat into the womb of the backstage labyrinth. And there will be six more weeks of winter.

Groundhog Ray
I don't have Photoshop.

I waited with mixed feelings as the night wore on and the crowd dwindled. There was an air of holiness to us who would be found faithful long after the casual fans headed home, yet the narrowing numbers thinned the insulation I was counting on for anonymity if and when he finally materialized.

Around 1 AM, I gave it up for good. Whether or not the stagehand who told us that Ray had pulled a fast one and left through the front door was telling the truth, I'll never know.

But my efforts weren't totally in vain. Twice the opening of the stage door framed Ray Lamontagne in all of his bearded, gaunt-faced glory. Just standing there, existing. Occupying the same block of 50 yards as me.

And that, believe it or not, was worth it.

Because I Can.

2009-11-06T12:37:00.001-08:00

Everyone should watch this video. Yes, it's over two years old. No, I don't care. I saw him and his band in concert last night and there's a chance it changed my life. Thus, I'm forcing everyone back through the annals of youtube time. If this isn't one of the most perfect songs you've ever heard, I'll eat my foot.

Networking.

2009-09-25T21:04:00.000-07:00

With no foreseeable end to my unemployment, I try to give my life the illusion of meaning by taking small steps in a progressive direction. Examples include daily exercise, cleaning off counter tops, making my bed, and, in the surest sign of the end times, making dinner. So it was in the name of progress that I did something unprecedented in my jobless stint: I woke up at 6:30 AM, left the house at 7, and a attended a Job Seekers meeting at a local church.

I'd heard good things about this great "networking opportunity," so I figured, meh, why not? Upon arrival, I refused to let the fact that I was by far the youngest person there daunt me as I turned in my resumé and filled out a name tag. After a few minutes of small talk and coffee, things got off to a rousing start: a devotional thought by an impassioned, dynamic speaker who, against all odds, followed God's will when He told him to buy a piece of real estate. Not kidding. I don't doubt his sincerity (delusion?), and I know I should have gleaned something more profound from his rapid-fire emotional shifts and homegrown axioms. But what it all amounted to in my estimation is that a) God led him to buy a beach-front property, and then b) courageously emboldened him to sell it for over three times its market value. Who knew God was such a bloodthirsty capitalist?

And on the 8th day, God created Wall Street.

After that altogether cringeworthy start and some roundtable networking introductions ("Hi, I'm Jessica Merrill. I'm a teacher. My background is teaching at an international school in Rwanda. My biggest accomplishment this past week was making a mixed-bean salad"), it was time to get down to the morning's lesson.

Previous weeks' topics have included headers such as "Preparing for an Interview" and "How to Make Your Resume Stand Out"--in short, things I actually want to know more about. Unfortunately for me, I happened to visit on "Evaluating and Negotiating the Job Offer" day. Which might have interested me, if we lived in a world where I got job offers, and tossed around acronyms like "POS" and "CRT" (Position Objective Statement and Comp, Relo, and Travel, if you're interested). Oh yes, phrases like "stock options" and "personal net worth" were bandied about with ease, and I felt, on the whole, very uncomfortable.

In the vein of "Deal or No Deal," we were given a group exercise in which several job offer scenarios were presented, and we were to decide collectively if we would take the job, based on consistent variables. For example:

"Your target annual salary is 72,000, and you want to work on the southside of Atlanta. A company in Buckhead (northside, for out-of-towners) is willing to offer you a job for 66,000. You negotiate the salary to 69,000. For the past two interviews you've been on, you have been one of the top three candidates for the job. Deal or no deal?"

I'm sure this is a real head-splitter for some, but as my table debated this quandary it was all I could do not to shout, "I was an ENGLISH MAJOR." (Okay, English education, but still). As soon as I read "target salary 72k" I officially entered the realm of fantasy. For me, the scenario might as well have read like this:

You are walking in a magical woodland when and old peddler approaches you with a satchet full of magic beans. The beans are very pretty and could be turned for a huge profit (if you're not so into beanstalks). However, your target prize is a pot of gold, given only to sharpwitted passerby cunning enough to solve the cryptic riddles of the mercurial leprechaun who guards the pot. You're pretty good at riddles. Also, gold is cooler than beans. You can't have both. You can take your chances with the leprechaun or grab the beans. Deal or no deal?

What would YOU do?

I hate feeling like my particular brand of skills is utterly worthless in the world of the business bottom line. This job hunt, ultimately, feels like a lot of middle-aged men in suits laughing at me. Or looking...bemused. While smoking giant cigars and drinking scotch. Or, let's be honest, just ignoring my resume altogether.

So the moral of the story is....take the beans? Or...keep truckin', tiger? Something like that, I guess. I, however--always the delusional optimistic--have decided to hold out for a genie.

You Asked For It (or Didn't): My Completely Unsolicited Opinion on "Twilight"

2009-09-16T14:07:00.000-07:00

A number of people have recently asked my opinion on the ever-so-broody, glitter-soaked, rabidly-adored phenomenon known as "Twilight," seeing as how I am an expert on all things literary. Okay, fine, by "a number of people," I mean one or two. And by "literary expert," I mean I have an English degree. For whatever that's worth, I am happy to give my thoughts on the series, generally limiting them to two words:

it's horrendous.

Now before you get all "Team Edward" on me, let me assure you that yes, I have read the books--all of them. And no, it wasn't the worst experience of my life. I'll even admit that by book three, I was ostensibly engaged. And, granted, like the Harry Potter books before them, the Twilight series has elicited a fever pitch of insatiable reading and book-swapping amongst teens, as any English teacher can attest. But unlike Harry Potter, however, I have (sub)zero desire to re-read Twilight in all of its melodramatic glory. Because unlike Harry Potter...Twilight is horrendous.

It's difficult to know where to begin in dissecting my distaste for Meyer's books. But you have to start somewhere, so here goes:

1) They're not funny.

Oh, come on Jess, be fair. The Brothers Karamozov isn't exactly a knee-slapper, either. Okay, fine, but in defense of this critique: if you are going to drag the reader down the path of Supernatural Emodom, you could at least infuse it with some semblance of humor. J.K. Rowling sure did. Plus, she had the added decency to make the plot and characters compelling to begin with. The nerve!

Sample funny line from Harry Potter:

"Percy wouldn't know a joke if it danced naked in front of him wearing Dobby's tea cozy."

Oh, J.K. That is both hilarious and adorable. How very British of you. By contrast:

Sample funny line from Twilight (according to a Google search):

Edward: "Do I dazzle you?"
Bella: "Frequently."

Oh, Steph. That is equal parts nauseating, unfunny, and vaguely homoerotic. Go ahead and take that brilliant Rowling line and slap it on Meyers. Or feel free to change it up: "Meyers wouldn't know wit if it bit her in the freaking neck."

SM: Do I nauseate you?
Reader: Frequently.

Of course, I'd be more forgiving if not for this:

2) Bella is the most boring female protagonist ever created.

Bore-a--woops, my bad, Bella--is constantly amazed by her ability to enthrall the ice-prince Edward. Frankly, so am I. From what I can gather, Bella is good at two things:

1) cooking for her equally boring father Charlie, and
2) almost dying.

"Bella, babe...if I bite you, will you promise to bore me for all eternity?"

The latter is particularly useful, as it allows Edward ample opportunity to swoop in and save her. Which in turn gives him ample opportunity to dictate her every move (I'm not kidding. The feminist inside you will die a slow death with the turn of each page).

But that's okay, because...

3) Edward is really, really hot.

Like, really hot. As Bella will tell you. With her every. waking. thought. I mean, every now and then, Bella takes a break from contemplating her boyfriend's glittery hotness/her own inadequacy-at-being-hot to almost die, but after that, she quickly redoubles her ogling efforts. If there was something tantamount to a drinking game for books, the one for Twilight would go something like this: "Drink every time Bella elaborates on the utter physical perfection of Edward." And in five minutes, you would be completely smashed. Which would probably be a better use of your time than actually reading the book.

4) Conflict, schmonflict.

Last time I checked, conflict was, like, kind of fundamental to good storytelling. Below, I give you an abbreviated summary of Bella's-perceived-conflicts/their-awesome-resolutions. If you're mid-series or anxiously awaiting the gory details onscreen, two things: first, re-evaluate your tastes. Then, proceed to number 5.

"Ugh, moving from Phoenix to Forks, this sucks. I guess I'll have to be the awkward new girl at school. Wait a minute...why does everyone love me? Cool, whatever. That hot pale guy sure hates me though. HOLD THE PHONE...he's actually psychotically in love with me? Why? Okay, sweet. Cool. Let's date. Ah, he's gorgeous but he's some kind of societal outcast--he probably lives in some shack in the woods. Or NOT. What the he---this is your house!??! No way. Hot, and RICH. But a vampire. mmm. This could cause some probs, as he's immortal and I'm a just a stupid, boring human....*kicks a can down a street.* Bah, what else to do but also be a vampire? Huh, Ed? Bite me. No? Not till we're married? Cool, I can wait. But first let's have sex--umm, get married. Done. Well, this could end badly, as you have Hulk-like strength and are technically marble--waaaaait, no...awesome. Of course. Bite me. Yes, I'm aware that I'm going to be a walking murderous rampage and never see my parents again. Do it anyway. Ya see, I kiiiiiiinda don't have any thoughts or goals outside of you, so....if this doesn't work out, I'm screwed, got it? Ouuuuuuuuuchh--'k, done. Rad. Hey, now I'm almost as hot as you! And really super fast and strong! And vampire-vampire sex = TOTES better than vampire-human sex! Heh, who knew? Wait...what's this?!?! I have some godlike self-control which instantly gives me the restraint towards mortals that you've been honing for CENTURIES?!?! So I DON'T have to say goodbye to Ma and Pa? And NO ONE really has to make any real sacrifice of ANY KIND?!??! Awesome. I love you. Make out with me.

THE END.

Okay, granted, it's not all butterflies 'n' rainbows in Bella's world. At times things get a little turbulent. You may feel bad about not caring, until you remember that the characters are one-dimensional snoozefests.

5) Enough. With. The Vampire. Spin-offs.

It seems that any phenomenon, no matter how horrible, becomes the vanguard through which related/rip-off media floods the cultural consciousness.

Exhibit A.

...and B.

and dear God, why: C.

While the first two might be chalked up to a strange confluence of vampire interest, that last one troubles me. At least Stephanie Meyers had the ingenuity to spew out her own crappy series. Now it looks like some talentless/shameless Christian writers will whore out her series, de-Mormonify it, and cloak their efforts in righteousness. In a word: ugh.

*Pshew. I think I'm done. And I've barely scratched the surface of feminist critique, which could fill a book. But on an effort to end on a light-hearted note, I leave you with this...

a hilarious mash-up of shirtlessness and Kristen Stewart's horrible acting, also known as the "New Moon" trailer. Enjoy.

Sing out loud. Sing out strong.

2009-09-04T21:35:00.000-07:00

So, I was driving home the other night, flipping through the radio, when I happened across an old Broadway show tune station. Hearkening back to my high school musical theater days, I enthusiastically--some might say dangerously (my right foot tends to get a whole lot heavier when I sing in the car)--sang along. Whilst doing so, I had an epiphany:

I really, really love to sing.

Now, this should come as no surprise to anyone who's known me longer than five minutes. By most estimations, I sing a lot--for the most part, unconsciously (it's just something I can't really help). But singing in the car, it struck me just how much I'd been neglecting this part of myself. I couldn't remember the last time I just sang, to the cars in my garage or to my shower wall, because I can, because I'm not dead, because it gives me more joy than just about anything else. And I could only ask myself...why not?

Why do I need to be reminded to do something that I love?

Before I was an esteemed scholar of the English language, I was a childhood subscriber to Highlights magazine. Highlights is proabably best known for introducing the world to the cartoon Goofus and Gallant, contrasting Gallant, the paragon of manners and tact, with Goofus, his belligerent, socially retarded counterpart. I, however, was especially fond of the advice section on the magazine's last page. Highlights to me represented the sum total of all wisdom, and I drafted many a frustrated query that never quite made it to the mailbox. Anyways, one question in particular from a mixed-up childhood contemporary has always stuck with me. It went something like this:

Dear Highlights,

I want to sing, but I don't know any songs. What should I do?

That question just breaks my heart, for several reasons. First of all, it's hard to believe that anyone is ever so young and innocent that their most pressing concern for an advice columnist is tips on what songs to sing. But secondly, and more importantly...isn't that kind of where everyone is stuck?

We want to express ourselves, and we don't know how. We want to tell our story, and we don't know the words. We want to dance, and we don't know how to move. We want to do so. many. things. And the fear of the unknown just stops the song.

I don't know a lot. I think it's a twentysomething rite of passage--or probably, just a human one--to question everything you've ever believed and to re-evaluate everything you've ever wanted to be. At least, I hope it is. But I do know this: I need to sing more. I've never been good at focused or regimented prayer, like I've never been good at sticking to anything. But I'm beginning to think that focused, active time spent in song could be the truest thing I could offer of myself, and therefore the best possible prayer I could give. I don't know. Maybe. It's not much, but it's the surest step in the right direction that I know to take right now.
I just pray I have the resolve to follow my song.

You Are Cordially Invited to a Pity Party.

2009-08-25T09:15:00.000-07:00

Ugh. I got online today with such good intentions. I brought a pad of paper to the computer desk to write down job options for which I am qualified. I was going to spend some more quality time with Craigslist and idealist.org, but this time, with gusto and purpose. I was going to look up the definition of "vivisection." (Wait, just because I'm feeling sorry for myself doesn't mean my vocabulary has to suffer- 1) the cutting of or operation on a living animal usually for physiological or pathological investigation; 2) minute or pitiless examination or criticism. Ah ha. Knew it). I was going to blog about something not-depressing, for a change.

Instead, I inadvertently tripped over about a dozen emotional landmines reminding me that my entire world from the past year is going back to Rwanda, and I am not.

I mentioned before how the trail of circumstance leading up to Me Not Going Back has left me feeling a bit like a jilted girlfriend, confused and wanting answers. I'm beginning to wonder if I similarly should treat Rwanda+all-that-that-entails as an ex-boyfriend who's holding me back. Make a clean break. Don't look at his facebook pictures, or read his blogs, or listen to his music--no, anything but music to maintain emotional equilibrium--or try to remember, or write down, or ask for updates about his life, or see who else he's been romancing, and how it's all getting on without you just fine. At least, not until you're in a secure relationship of your own.

But then, if you lose all of that...what's left? Do you lose a part of yourself, too?

There are bigger problems in the world. Children are dying of AIDS, and being sold into the sex trade, and people are dying of cancer, and dolphins are being mutilated, and bad people are getting things they don't deserve. The "why" of all that is intensely more profound than any narcissistic vivisection (I swear I wasn't planning that, it just worked) I can muster for the embarrassingly-small semi-tragedy of me not going back to Africa.

So. I'll let you know when I've evolved past self-congratulatory whining. Till then, I should probably just avoid the internet altogether.

An Open Letter to the Gainfully Employed.

2009-08-09T14:09:00.001-07:00

Dear You,

If I see you,

and you ask what I'm doing these days,

and I say "looking for a job,"

please, for the love of God,

don't scoff, say "good luck!," then proceed to tell me how everyone you know just got laid off.

Really? The economy's down?

Employer's aren't hiring?

Surely, you jest!

Well, I guess that explains a lot. Wow. Thanks for your enlightenment of the situation.

Now, go back to your job and enjoy being insured.

And really, you don't have to bother talking to me again.

Peace,

Jess

Ready, Aim....Hire!

2009-07-28T14:30:00.000-07:00

That's right, my friends, I am on the job hunt. After careful review, I've decided that I: a) need employment to finance all of the concerts I want to attend, and b) am bored out of my mind.

Admittedly, there are several factors working against me in this endeavor. Number one being, of course, the economy. Potentially more devastating, however, is my methodology when it comes to job applications. I somehow think that perusing Craigslist automatically qualifies me for hire. While viewing all my potential employers, I get so overwhelmed with all the jobs I could have that I mentally shut down and forget to...umm...apply. Hey, it's tough work juggling so many imaginary jobs.

In other news. I'm a little sick of being Africa Girl. I'm proud of what I did there, but for the love of Mike, people, I didn't go to Mars.

That being said, if my overseas experience at all gives me an edge over fellow job hunters, you better believe I'm showing up at interviews looking like this.

Don't forget me.

2009-07-22T19:17:00.000-07:00

4 days. yahoo!

Baffling Trends: Engagement Photos

2009-06-24T13:26:00.000-07:00

You're getting married, not modeling for Marc Jacobs.

What's with this?

Limbo.

2009-06-17T11:15:00.000-07:00

"I have become a name; for always roaming with a hungry heart..."

I have now been back in the States a little over one week, after a near ten-month absence. A number of things have changed while I was away: a black man became president, the economy went down the proverbial toilet, Twitter became an obnoxiously ubiquitous force in popular culture, and, most notably, my beloved Conan moved west to L.A. and an hour up into television primetime.

Also, my sister has been married nearly a year. This isn't a change so much as a cold hard indicator of time that makes me sweat a little, and sad a little.

Overall, I don't feel quite like the alien I imagined myself being in the transition from Africa to Suburbia. I'm not sure if I should be comforted by that, or disgusted. Occasionally, an incredibly-mundane-yet-forgotten element of American life will catch me off guard, and I'll shout out nouns like interjections--"Paper TOWELS!" "Water Fountains!" "FAT People!" American/summertime life in general, though, has lazily resumed its pace from August 2008--a morning run, followed by black coffee, followed by nothing-in-particular, really.

As for my future plans--well, that is the topic over which I am simultaneously internally-obsessing and cerebrally-avoiding. To make a long, strange story short: I won't be returning to KICS next year, nor will virtually any of the 08-09 staff. However, nearly all of my colleagues/friends WILL be returning to Rwanda, via a new school that is opening in September. Due to low enrollment in the secondary program, however, this new school does not have a position to offer me. Without sounding too melodramatic, it feels a bit like being dumped by my life--my most current life, anyways--one that I had fallen in love with. Or that I didn't get an invite to some hip new secret club. It's no one's fault, and I don't want to sound like a child, or overly bitter. I'm almost through feeling sorry for myself now, but I'm not too proud to admit that I spent many of my last days in Rwanda feeling adrift, and irrelevant, and more than a little heartbroken.

So. The future. There's a chance that enrollment will increase, and I'll have a job, but it's kind of a pipe dream, and nothing to bank on. I could theoretically return to Rwanda and find a lesser-paying job somewhere else, but part of me wonders if this is the universe's way of nudging me elsewhere--no, not nudging; slamming a door. Which makes me more than a little peeved at the universe, or God, or whatever it was that brought me to Rwanda in the first place. (Pardon my passive voice construction. I'm fully aware that I need to evaluate my locus-of-control). I know I gained more than I can now realize from the past year, and I'll cherish the friendships I've made forever, but with "the next step" so indistinct there is the nagging question of "what it all meant." I'm terrified of losing it, of forgetting; of the past year fading like the dream it so often felt like. I feel a bit like a character in some sci-fi movie, who enters some weird parallel universe, undergoes some life-altering reality, then returns years later to his previous existence to discover that he's only been gone a few hours. Or like Ulysses in Tennyson's poem. After years of pining for Ithaca and Penelope, battling gods and monsters, sailing the world with his men, and feeling utterly exhausted but alive, he finally returns home, only to find himself. . .well, older and bored. An "idle king," administering law to a "savage race, that hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me." Only, I never wanted to go home that badly in the first place.

It's strange--this summer is in so many ways identical to last summer that at times I feel like the last year didn't happen at all. Which terrifies me. I'm certainly not the exotic, tanned, toned, benevolent orphan-cradling "back-from-Africa" Jess that I imagined at one time I'd probably be (should be?) by now (but then again, when have I ever transformed into my expectations?) If possible, now I only feel even more confused and anxious about the future.

Oh, and now I can drive a stick shift.

A Mighty Fortress

2009-04-03T02:08:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday, during umuganda (the monthly requisite community service day for Rwandans; the monthly sleep-in-and-do-nothing day for mzungus), my roommates and I were languidly enjoying a morning of no responsibility and horrible television when I mused aloud:

"We should build a fort."

Now, I tend to think of myself as something of an "idea person"--I'm good at conceiving, but not so much at birthing my brainchildren into existence. Fortunately, I live with some practical midwives who know how to get things done.

Minutes later, Fort Chunately was erected.

Fort Chunately (get it? say it out loud) is stocked with amenities to relieve the overworked teacher--mattresses, pillows, blankets, books, candles, and--the pièce de résistance--four cans of Play-doh. My roommate Shannon magnanimously volunteered her mattress to the cause of the fort, and has taken up temporary residence within its billowy walls. I've joined her for all but three nights since the fort's materialization.

Perpetuating the existence of Chunately is not the most practical of endeavors, as she usurps all of our furniture and makes dining at a table impossible. However, we are happily obliged to simply dine inside the fort, as we did with two friends we had over for dinner last night. In fact, we're happily obliged to do everything inside the fort, and rue the inevitable date when practicality will outweigh sentimentality, and Chunately will stand no more.

In the meantime, however, we are celebrating her one-week birthday tomorrow night (or Fort-night, as we've dubbed it).

Long live Fort Chunately.

You got any better ideas?

2009-03-31T06:13:00.000-07:00

Exhausted from trying to make important decisions about my future, I’ve decided to do what any good leader/educator does best: delegate.

My students’ next assignment: a persuasive essay entitled “What Should Ms. Merrill Do With Her Life?”

All good writers consider their audience when writing. For this assignment, the audience is incredibly simple and specific--me. For each proposed life path, students will have to determine the short term benefits and long term effects. Basically, they will engineer my five year plan. Those wishing to go above and beyond may research 401K’s and Roth IRA’s for my paltry sum of cash, ensuring that I won’t, one day, die broke. I’d rather leave number-crunching and finance-dissecting to the math types, anyway.

Sure, I expect a large number of puerile responses--”join the circus,” or “breed golden retriever/poodle hybrids” or “never set foot in a classroom again,” or what have you. But when it gets right down to it, I’m starting to suspect that thirty-six 13 to 18 year olds have as good an idea as I do (or better) about the direction my life should take.

The best essay will receive a 348% and my undying gratitude. Plus, bragging rights and a rare sense of fulfillment--it’s not often that a student gets to choose the trajectory of an “adult’s” life.

The Six Word Memoir

2009-03-02T04:49:00.000-08:00

According to literary legend, Ernest Hemingway was once given the challenge to write a whole story in six words. His response? For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

The six-word format has taken on new life in the past few years. In 2006, Smith magazine, an online publication, posed the challenge to their readers: how would you sum up your life in six words? The response was so overwhelming that the magazine editors compiled a book of the best responses:Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure.

I recently posed this same challenge to all the high school students. Each student was to write a six word memoir and decorate a blank piece of paper to illustrate their words. The 11th graders, who were wrapping up a Hemingway study, were put in charge of compiling all the responses into a book for the school (appropriately enough, there are six of them).

Here are a few of my favorite responses:

I dried my tears and smiled.

Don't make sense, just be sensational!

Can I draw a picture instead?

What are we supposed to do? (you have to know the student.)

I gained everything by surrendering everything.

Find yourself once, then life changes.

Naturally, I went with something music related for mine (searching for the appropriate song lyric). Never thought I'd end up here was a close second.

What are your six words?

"Counter-cultural" does not equal "good."

2009-02-25T02:57:00.000-08:00

This editorial is written in response to this article.

Preface: Before you ask, yes I have read The Culturally Savvy Christian.

Disclaimer: This post contains several. . .disclaimers. And questions.

Last month in San Antonio, conservative Christians gathered to honor the best films of the year--that is, the best Christian films. Among the categories honored at the San Antonio Independent Christian Film Festival: best musical score, best biblical family, best anti-abortion film, and best explanation of biblical creation.

Only one of the previously mentioned categories is a joke.

As a side note, the 18-member Arkansan Duggar family performed their own version of “Edelweiss” at the festival. Naturally.

Do I sound cynical? Is the unease I felt listening to this story engendered by my own lack of conviction? My subscription to the worldly values propagated by pagan Hollywood studio executives?

Or am I just fed up with the “counter-cultural phenomenon” of evangelicals disguising bad art with the banner of “Christian”?

Granted, I haven’t seen any of the films honored at the SAICFF (but I have seen these clips of two of the big winners. I don’t think my admittedly premature conclusions are too far from the mark). And who’s to blame conservative Christians for creating an alternative media outlet which accurately reflects their values? Certainly, such initiative should be applauded.

And it should be--if the art being created is good.

I hope I don’t seem unjustly harsh. I guess my resentment for the whole subgenre of Christian marketing stems from the questions it often raises amongst the Jesus-interested-but-intellectually-wary general public:

Does being a Christian mean buying into the Christian industry? Do I have to like these films? These poorly written allegories?* This music? Because, to be perfectly honest--I find most Christian music to be bland, needlessly repetitive, and -- I’m just gonna say it -- depressing.**

Can I be a Christian and still have discerning tastes? Or further still: can I be a Christian and still be...smart?

This NPR story reignited a deeper internal debate I’ve been having with myself recently. Can faith and intellectualism coexist in equal proportions? Does the sharpening of one weaken the other?

Does my inability to find meaning in the 409th repeated refrain of a praise song stem from a lack of pure faith on my part, or just an annoyance with praise songs? (I don’t hate all praise songs. Just...a lot of them).

I hope I’m not alone in fearing that being avowedly “Christian” will somehow neuter the other facets of what I am--a fairly intelligent girl (woman?) with a sometimes (often) wildly inappropriate sense of humor. How to be Christian without losing your “edge”? Is Christianity some factory which produces glass-eyed asexual droids with shaky Southern-pastor voices who actually like Kirk Cameron movies?

Of course not. But letting “Christian” become synonymous with “formulaic,” “cheesy,” or just plain “bad” is only perpetuating that message.

*There are some brilliant, thoughtful Christian thinkers and writers out there. Christian fiction as a whole, however...

**I am no connoisseur of Christian music. I speak from my limited experience with the genre. If anyone has any recommendations for me, I'd be happy to take them.

Perks of Being a "Grown-Up", #1

2009-02-12T01:15:00.000-08:00

Calling my fellow teachers by their first names within earshot of students makes me feel like I'm in some secret, exclusive club.

Ah, but I was so much older then...

2009-02-08T03:34:00.000-08:00

I'm younger than that now.

~My Back Pages
Bob Dylan

20 years from now, I sure hope so.

An African Adventure of Faith

2008-12-20T08:15:00.000-08:00

Well, well, well, Christmas break is upon us. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but after juggling around a million different possibilities and travel dates, Marissa and I are leaving for Kampala tomorrow at 6:30 AM. This is either the coolest or stupidest thing I've ever done. Our preparation is severely lacking, and I am praying that our funds don't run out. But...I am confident that God will provide for us what we need, when we need it. I am praying that He will put the right people in our path to tell us things we need to know, and keep us from people that would do us harm. I'm going to take this opportunity to shamelessly solicit your prayers. Pray that we are safe in some of the more dicey areas we will be, pray that we will have places to stay (as hostel booking hasn't really happened), pray that we can figure out how to get home from Tanzania (getting there is a thousand times easier than getting back), pray that we have enough money. I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little stressed right now...but this will be a once in a lifetime adventure! I am hoping I can take this opportunity to just rely on God and see how He provides. And having your prayers behind us as we go would be incredibly comforting as well.

So. That's all for now...maybe for this year. If I don't have computer access, have a merry Christmas and happy New Year! blessings to all, and thank you for your prayers!

Parent Teacher Conferences

2008-12-18T04:43:00.000-08:00

...are happening as we speak at Kigali International Community School.

I am meeting with parents all day and saying things like "He's an intelligent, courteous young man" and "I think it's more of a motivation problem than anything else."

How old am I?

Christmas Traditions

2008-12-18T02:55:00.000-08:00

Every family has its own unique traditions that add to the magic and wonder of the holiday season.

My family is no different. Every year, shortly after Thanksgiving, we'd go to a special farm and purchase a conically shaped tree, around 6 feet tall. We would then place this tree in the corner of our living room. We would untangle a long string of small lights, and then wrap the lights around the tree. After that, we'd pull out a stash of small, colored spheres and hang them from the limbs of the tree.

Beneath the tree, we would place gifts that we bought for one another, wrapped in shiny paper and elaborate bows. On the mantle above the fireplace, we hung cloth receptacles shaped like enormous socks, each labeled with our names. On Christmas morning, these receptacles would be overflowing with the small gifts that were too difficult to wrap.

Christmas Eve was an exciting time. My sister, brother and I would be brimming with anticipation, anxiously tracking of the progress of the clock. As much as we wanted to stay up just a few more minutes, our parents kept reminding us that we needed to go to bed. Why, may you ask? Every Christmas Eve our house got a special visitor. He was said to be a portly man, elderly, sporting white hair and red suit. He allegedly came down through our chimney with a sack full of presents for the three of us, which he would then artfully arrange on our sofa and chairs. We liked to call him "Santa Claus." To thank him for his troubles, we children would always leave a glass of milk and a plate of cookies on the coffee table.

Christmas morning came, and we would be beside ourselves. My parents would always go down ahead of us to check out the spread that ole S.C. had left in his wake. With the three of us at the head of the stairs, my mother would call out, "I think we had a visitor last night!" and we would race down the stairs like they were on fire. We'd round the corner to our living room, and there they were: Santa's gifts. After we had thoroughly exhausted ourselves in opening de-boxing, assembling, and admiring the gifts from Santa, we'd then move on to the gifts under the tree. Furiously, we'd tear apart the wrapping, creating a veritable fortress of crumpled paper.

As noon time rolled around, we'd lie around the on the sofas, buttressed in by our bounty, watching "A Christmas Story" or whatever other Christmas movie happened to be on the television, basking in the afterglow of the morning.

I'll never forget those special Christmas times.

O Magnum Mysterium

2008-12-14T05:05:00.000-08:00

Well, friends, it's been awhile. Forgive me. You'll notice I tend to follow a pattern in my blogging life: a month or so of dormancy, followed by a brief storm of creative energy and productivity, and then back to silence. A quick update: since the despondency of my last post, I have traveled to Uganda for Thanksgiving, rafted the Nile, had my very first car accident, become all too familiar with Rwanda's police force and bureaucratic, depressing insurance processes, had my passport stolen (along with all the other contents of my purse), and almost successfully completed my first semester of teaching. That brief outline will have to suffice--for those of you concerned about items 3 and 5, just know that I am fine, all is well, and I lost nothing that can't be replaced.

Anyways. This is a rather cheap return to blog form, but I thought of this song earlier today and had the urge to share it with everyone. It's always been one of my favorite choral songs, and getting the chance to sing it my senior year of college was one of the most transcendent musical experiences I've ever had. The loose translation of the song is this:

O great mystery and admirable [wonderful] sacrament
That animals see the Lord born
Lying in a manger.

Blessed virgin whose viscera [womb]
Were [was] worthy to bear Lord Christ.
Allelujah.

I thought it fitting, considering the season. If you have a beating heart, the minor chord at 2:58 should stop it, momentarily. Hope you enjoy.

Burnout.

2008-11-10T09:37:00.000-08:00

I don't want to teach.

I just want to lie in bed, watch movies, and eat my weight in chocolate.

Is that too much to ask, really?

It's a small world after all.

2008-11-06T08:53:00.000-08:00

I read this book fall semester of my junior year of college, as part of a young adult literature class. At the end of the semester, after unsuccessfully trying to sell it back to Harding's bookstore, I dropped it in some give-away box with the other undesirables, anxious to lighten my load.

Little did I know, the give-away box was intended for a small start-up school in Africa, desperate for books.

This morning, the headmaster of KICS returned Ghost Boy to its original owner. Barely able to contain himself, he hurried to my class before first period, opened to the inside page, and revealed my name.

I'm taking this as just one more little affirmation from the universe that I really am meant to be here.

(somehow, an ex-boyfriend's old textbook also ended up in my Rwandan classroom. i'm not quite sure what to do with that).

One More

2008-10-31T17:46:00.000-07:00

One more party with all the familiar expat faces.

One more new arrival whose name I won't remember, working at some NGO.

One more time: I'm Jess. From the States--Atlanta. I'm a teacher. High school English. KICS, in Gaculiro. Been here about two and half months. Yes, I like it. Live in Kibagabaga--near Kimironko? Will be here at least through the school year in June.

Then on to repeat the litany to someone else, who doesn't care either.

what's the point, really?

Musings for the Void.

2008-10-22T05:12:00.001-07:00

In terms of life changes, the year 2008 is going to be pretty hard to beat.

I survived student teaching, and subsequently, I graduated college.

I watched my best friend and sister become a wife.

I said goodbye to my family and friends and moved to Africa.

That last part bears repeating: I moved. to Africa.

Consequently, I have somewhat figured out how to live in Africa (no--I have learned to live in Kigali, Rwanda. I certainly don’t need to further the conceptualization of Africa as a massive, dark shape; I say “I moved to Africa” only to heighten the dramatic effect).

I began teaching. I am now known to 28 high schoolers as "Miss." I’ve conditioned myself to falling asleep before ten and waking up at ungodly hours of the morning, when most rational human beings have at least another two hours left.

I co-purchased a vehicle, and, by God’s good grace, I will soon drive a stick shift.

I’ve learned how to live without paper towels, microwaves, and season 5 of The Office.

I’ve made new friends from all over Africa, the United States, and world.

*************************************************************************************

So why am I still wondering if things will ever change?

Then you can start to make it better.

2008-10-16T01:31:00.000-07:00

It’s amazing how quickly the weeks have filled up since I arrived here over two months ago; nearly every day has something going on. Tuesdays and Thursdays I tutor from 2:30-4. Usually one of those days contains a trip to Bourbon Café or Torero, the new café downtown. Wednesday nights are for the singing and prayer service at our headmaster’s house. Saturday mornings are for grading, and, more importantly, not setting my alarm; Saturday nights are typically reserved for something slightly less depressing. Sundays are church days, movie nights, and the inevitable Sunday night existential crisis about whether or not I can actually teach another week of school.

And then there’s Friday.

Fridays have no designated activity, excepting the institution of the Friday Song (and, more recently, upon the suggestion of a fellow teacher, Friday Chocolate). The Friday Song was designed to inject the drudgery of the workweek with a Springsteenian dose of grandeur and significance--a musical high-five, if you will. There is only one rule for the designated Friday Song: it may only be listened to on Friday, after the completion of another five days that, on Sunday, seemed impossible. Preferably, it should be a song with a slow build, gradually climaxing to a release of epic proportions. The song selection is crucial, since years later, the Friday Song will be synonymous in my mind with freedom and survival and that time that I was 22 and taught in Rwanda and felt anxious and so young and so old at the same time and didn‘t have a clue what I was doing but at least seemed bold and intrepid, right?

The last class exits my room around 2:25 pm. As the last student leaves, I hastily shut the door behind her, and hurry over to my laptop. On goes the Friday Song (currently: Hey Jude, though I’m thinking of doing a monthly rotation); off go the shoes. For the next seven minutes, after my chocolate is eaten, I will dance (actually, more like drunkenly sway) around my room like some deranged hippy. I am careful to avoid the window in my door, lest a passing student peek in and silently confirm that Ms. Merrill has a screw loose.
I can think of no better way to end the week than closing my eyes and losing myself in the euphoria of Paul McCartney’s chorus of nah-n-n-nah-nahs.

One more day.

Great Moments in Teaching, Pt. 1

2008-10-09T11:17:00.000-07:00

My proudest accomplishments so far. . .

1) Finding an excuse to show a clip from "The Office" to 9th and 10th graders.

2) Using Joni Mitchell, Bruce Springsteen, Simon and Garfunkel, and Radiohead songs in three different lessons--all within the course of a day.

3) Using "Waiting for Guffman" to illustrate satire to the 10th graders.

4) Incorporating a "Heavyweights" quote into a test.

Just doing my part to empower the future of Rwanda.

Fifth Grade Follies

2008-10-07T07:15:00.001-07:00

In addition to teaching all four levels of high school English, everyday I teach a creative writing class for the middle school 9 week rotation. Right now, and for the next three weeks, I have the fifth graders. In case you were wondering, that's five different classes. Every. day. In case you were wondering. . .that's a lot. Oh, and I also recently began tutoring someone for three hours a week. Brilliant.

In other words, I'm a busy woman. It's virtually impossible to stay on top of things--especially for someone like me, who's already prone to disorganization. Very often, I have to let a class fall through the cracks.

Typically it's the fifth graders. My stack of papers to grade for that class has grown embarrassingly large since the beginning of school.

Only last night, however, did I realize what a potential goldmine I am sitting on. I am only hurting myself by not reading gems like this one, a product of yesterday's assignment.

The Assignment: Describe a wedding from the perspective of a young kid and an older person.

I think someone got a little confused...

"An old person can think that there still young. You can make an old person admit that their old if you tell them they can get a free foot massage my mom own a sauna and she really loves foot massage." *

*grammar and spelling unaltered

Great advice from a fifth grader who shall remain anonymous (to you and me both--he/she forget to put a name on the paper. I wish I knew who to thank).

Proof that I am out of the loop.

2008-10-06T05:15:00.000-07:00

According to imdb.com, the number one movie at the box office right now is. . .

Beverly Hills Chihuahua???

Dear Lord. What else am I missing?

Thank you, Jennifer.

2008-10-06T01:06:00.000-07:00

This is a work of genius.

That's Miss Merrill to You.

2008-09-08T07:04:00.000-07:00

For all of those who never believed I'd make it this far....

I am officially six days into my career as an English teacher.

When I was a student (umm, earlier this year), I always envisioned "school" as a place where the teachers enthusiastically worked together in little collaborative education dream teams, focused solely on the bettermen t of the people they serve, like doctors in a hospital run by nuns, or the White House (present administration excluded). Maybe they met for coffee on Saturdays to discuss education hot topics like differentiating curriculum, or traded classroom management tips over Sunday brunch.

Needless to say, my first week, uhhh...wasn't that. Last Monday was off to a great start, until a girl in first period question asked the telling question:

"So, what are we doing tomorrow?"

Crickets.

First of all, there's the sheer absurdity of calling my early twenty-something colleagues "Mr." and "Ms." (or "colleagues," for that matter). I've tried to focus on the small victories (semi-mastering a new copy machine) and ignore embarrassing defeats (completely forgetting the meaning of the word "predicate" in the middle of a grammar test, mutilating my right heel on the second day from wearing too-small shoes). I turn up my music every morning in an attempt to drown out the voice in my head that sweetly says I have no business teaching high schoolers, that I really don't know anything at all, and that I should probably just go find a job filing papers somewhere. (That, by the way, is the nice voice. The not-so-noice voice usually suggesets that I do something involving a running car engine and a hose).

And if first-time teaching doesn't make you insecure enough, teaching a class of almost entirely francophone seniors who rarely speak English to each other ought to do the trick.

Still, when I'm not succumbing to my insecurities, butchering my African students' names, or pulling my hair out trying to lesson plan, I look out the window, pinch myself, and usually, laugh.

My trip to school every morning consists of walking up a dirt road for about 10 minutes, until I hit the main road that takes me down our hill. It looks out to the valley and beyond, and takes me past dozens of children wearing blue uniforms who wave and smile and shout "Muzungu!" (but they're adorable so I don't mind so much).There are women in wild prints balancing huge bunches of bananas on their heads, women with sleeping babies tied to their backs, and a myriad of other things which scream "Africa" that I wonder if I'll ever get over. I walk until I can flag down some transportation, haggle over the price, then zoom through the valley, past the gas station, and up to school, all the while marveling that I actually live this life.

My trip home from school usually takes place in the dark. But getting there is lovely.

The Five Stages of Grief/Teaching

2008-09-04T06:27:00.000-07:00

1) Denial.
Example: blogging/Facebooking/Minesweeper-ing instead of planning for five classes/grading.

2) Anger.

Example: "How much am I getting paid to do this?"

3) Bargaining.

Example: "If I plan for four days, can't I just show a movie on Friday?"

4) Depression.

Example: "Excuse me, good sir, could you direct me towards the nearest cliff?"

5) Acceptance.

Example: "Maybe I won't be the next Ron Clark, but at least I won't be Mary Kay Letourneau."

This is the view from classroom.

2008-08-29T05:49:00.000-07:00

And, if you must know, it is the view I am looking at this very moment.

Well, that and the literary term posters on my back wall that absolutely refuse to hang in right angles.

The picture really doesn't do it justice. I could try to describe it, but I would end up sounding like some cheesy voice-over in a movie, read by an actress who thinks she knows how to do a Southern accent. So I'll leave it at this: it's lovely. At night, when the hills are covered in lights, it's stunning, even. Perfect for sitting in a lounge chair, sipping red wine or black coffee, and reading Wordsworth.

Unfortunately, I don't believe the aforementioned activities were written into my contract with the school. Instead, I seem to recall something about teaching high school--a job for which, to be honest, I feel completely inadequate. Which probably explains why I am blogging right now instead of planning to teach four levels of English.

Still, I am hoping for some kind of spiritual, organic communion with the hills and the sky outside my door, to energize my teaching efforts and (maybe) make 9th graders care about The Odyssey. Isn't there some scripture about looking to the hills for help?

Dear Lord, I sound more New Age-y everyday.

I guess it doesn't help that I just had a full-length tye-dye dress made for me.

...this kind of mind is not ideal for curriculum-planning.

Muraho!

2008-08-20T00:15:00.000-07:00

"Muraho" is "hello" in Kinyarwandan. Wait, or is it "how are you?" Shoot, I can't remember. The one word I know for sure is "Muzungu"--white person. This word is hard to avoid--anytime we walk down the street we hear it in passing conversations, and the kids wave and call it out as we ride on the bus.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am in Africa. . .a fact that continues to amaze me. Really, I am most amazed with myself. I really never thought I was the girl that switched continents for a year-- just the girl who thought something like that would be really cool. Granted, I have friends here, but I didn't know they'd be with me with I signed on. And I know, it's not like I'm entrenched in Baghdad or anything. But still. If I'm allowed to say it...I am proud of myself.

The first few days have been an overwhelming jumble of first impressions, new friends, and new places. I couldn't possibly describe it all and be remotely interesting, so I will give you a few highlights:

1) Plane ride from Addis Ababa (Ethiopia) to Kigali: I sat next to a man with a gold and diamond watch bigger than my head who, in casual conversation, said that his "kingdom is bigger than Rwanda." He, unsurprisingly, does something with diamonds. And oil. He gave me his card at the end of the flight, and, I'm not joking, his email address is "princeofcongo@yahoo.fr." Don't email him; I'm sure he could have me killed.

2) On our second day, we were shown real estate by a man named Dudu--pronounced exactly like it looks. This has been the highlight of our house-hunting experience. (Read: it's not going too well. Prayers appreciated!)

3) The ladies in the marketplace call me "sees-tah." I love it. After years of feeling self-conscious about my utter lack of ethnicity in metro-Atlanta, I move to Africa and finally become a sister.

4) I know the concept of the "line" is predominantly a Western one--that the rest of the world, as I have found it, prefers to clump. But the mass of humanity at the cell phone store the other day tested the limits of what is acceptable for civilized beings. From looking at the Rwandese, you would have thought the fate of the world rested on their ability to be waited on first at the cell phone store. Or, at least, before the muzungus. The woman behind me got closer than anyone who doesn't put a ring on my finger should ever get, sandwiching me between the woman directly in front of me like a deli meat. (Is that too obvious a simile for the verb "sandwiched"? Oh well). But I got my cell phone, and a valuable cultural experience, so all in all it was a success.

5) Last night we ate at....drumroll please...a Mexican restaurant. African women speaking French in senorita shirts, with French Simon and Garfunkel covers playing on the radio. In other words, anything you could ever want in a Mexican restaurant. Oh, and Dora the Explorer was painted on the outside wall. Tres bien.

6) Yesterday we visited a workshop which brings in women from all over the country who have been widowed by the genocide. There, they learn to become master basket weavers, and their baskets are sold to Macy's. And Bono. He, apparently, is a patron. This is probably the closest I'll get to Bono while I'm in Africa. Or ever.

We got to visit with the ladies, take pictures, and take a stab at basket weaving before one of the ladies panicked and hastily retrieved her handiwork. Overall, a terrific day!

With that, I leave you with a totally cliche picture of muzungu + Africans. Enjoy!

Satisfied?

2008-08-14T14:36:00.000-07:00

Show me!

Not to toot my own horn, but I receive a lot of positive feedback for my blogging enterprises. "Jessica, when are you going to update your blog"; "Jessica, your blog changed my life"; "Jessica, your blog is a ray of hope in an increasingly dark and terrifying world"--I could go on, but you get the idea. However, this positive feedback is almost exclusively verbal. And while I do enjoy replaying lavish praise in my head, occasionally I misplace a word or two, which tends to frustrate the process of retrieval. If only I had some type of visual affirmation--like, shall we say, in the form of more comments--I am certain that my blogging efforts would quadruple (or, erm, somewhat increase) in response to the encouragement. Or, it would just assuage my ego. Both desirable outcomes. Since I primarily exist off the positive feedback of others, comment on my blog and watch me salivate like Pavlov's dogs. We can use this entry as a test drive, if you like. You can even keep the image of me foaming at the mouth in your head as you do it...if you like.

So, I believe we all have what we want now. My readers got a new entry, and I got a desperate, groveling, borderline-despicable plea for more feedback. I have thrown myself at your, the discriminating reader's, mercy, sacrificing 94% (yes, 94) of my dignity in the process. If you don't comment now I'll really look like an idiot. And you wouldn't want that...right?

The Odyssey: Part Two

2008-07-28T18:17:00.001-07:00

How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Greyhound

I chose to be a New Zealander for two reasons. One being that, after watching countless hours of Flight of the Conchords (okay, and Lord of the Rings special features), just about every accent I attempt comes out Kiwi anyways. Secondly, I figured that New Zealand was obscure enough that anyone suspicious of my actual origins would be too nervous to call my bluff.

Now, I've faked accents before--Jennifer and I find it a perfectly acceptable way to endure the agony of shopping--but always on the short-term. This was going to test my resolve. The question was: do I have the stamina, the wherewithal, if you will, to fake an accent for the entire ride?

The answer is yes, I do.

So, I prepared a little backstory. Jih-ssica was "on holiday in the States, visiting family." One of her "mates got married in Ahh-kin-sawr," so that's what she was doing there. She had tried to fly out of Little Rock on a buddy pass for the past two days, but after missing eight flights in a row, she had finally broken down and purchased a Greyhound bus ticket. (You'll notice I didn't deviate too much from my own narrative here; I didn't see any need to confuse myself). She was excited, though, as the Greyhound ride would give her a chance to "see America from the road" (though she found the scenery from Little Rock to Memphis "rather boring.")

I boarded the bus and looked around nervously for a free seat. The Greyhound gets scarier the closer you get to the back (take Exhibit A: Creepy Guy in Wifebeater with Tattoos on his Head), so I happily found a spot in the middle, next to a curly-headed guy who reeked of smoke but looked friendly enough.

After we got going, I asked a few friendly questions about Greyhound bus riding (questions I actually wanted to know the answers to, as I was a first-timer), until he finally took the bait: "If you don't mind me asking, where are you from?" I didn't mind, not at all. He asked if I knew Flight of the Conchords, and I expressed my appreciation to them for "putting us on the map." We carried on a bit, and I gave him my backstory. When we got to Memphis, I asked if you could see "the Elvis home" from the road (I started to tell him that my parents are just nuts about Elvis, that all New Zealanders are, that my father was an impersonator and my little sister was named Lisa Marie, but I thought this might be a little much). I sat on the edge of my seat and gave a rather convincing portrayal of a foreigner seeing Memphis for the first time--Steven (my new friend's name) kindly pointed out the Pyramid as we crossed the bridge.

When I boarded the bus, I had been past the point of exhaustion, after only getting four hours of sleep the night before, plus the emotional turmoil of the Standby Crisis. But the adrenaline rush of lying so outrageously revived me considerably, and this whole time I was inwardly buzzing. If I seem a little pleased with myself...I totally was.

Steven and I bid farewell when he got off at Memphis. I then had an hour to kill at the station while a crew cleaned the bus, so I started looking for new friends. It was there that I met Teddy, a sweet, surprisingly mature 15-year old traveling with her 10-year old sister. They were headed to Louisville ("that's where I'm from," she said, in as subtle attempt as she could manage to get me to reveal my homeland). Teddy "just love[d] [my] accent" ("Oh, I love yours!"), and in my naive-foreigner mode, I stuck close to her, depending on her American expertise. And yes, I did feel like somewhat of a dirtbag for duping this perfectly nice girl--but if not for my forged personality I probably wouldn't have met her in the first place....so. Teddy and I went our separate ways at Nashville around midnight, but not before I got a picture with my "new American mates." (I probably said "mates" too much).

My ride got decidedly quieter in the wee morning hours, and I had to keep reminding myself I was foreign as I got progressively sleepier. Nashville to Atlanta passed in an uncomfortable blur, as I found sleeping on the Greyhound virtually impossible. When I finally got to Atlanta, I decided the jig was up; I hadn't really talked to anyone lately anyways (which was probably a good thing; I think my accent got decidedly more British as the night wore on). But I will always remember fondly my time as a New Zealander on the Greyhound.

And if Steven or Teddy ever happen to come across this blog...I'm really sorry.

The Odyssey: A Story in Two Parts

2008-07-28T17:49:00.001-07:00

Saturday at around 12:00 PM, I arrived at the Little Rock airport to catch a flight back to Atlanta.

Two days, eight missed flights, and one 14 and 1/2 Greyhound bus journey later, I finally made it home.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Odyssey.

Part One: Standby Me

Not too long ago, I proclaimed my gushing love for all things airport. Perhaps I should have qualified myself. Though I do love airports, I hate--nay loathe--flying standby.

For those of you who've never flown standby, let me describe it for you. When you fly standby, all confirmed passengers are your enemies. You nervously count heads and the gate, silently groaning with every new arrival. The passengers who come rushing up at the eleventh hour (or far worse, ambling up), after you've allowed yourself the smallest shred of hope to get on the plane, are the very spawn of Satan. Especially the grown woman who arrived inexplicably out of breath, crying, and--here's the kicker--holding her tennis shoes. (But I digress). You wait with your heart in your throat while zone after zone is called to board--Zone 1, Zone 2, Zone 3--while you remain firmly entrenched in the No Fly Zone.

Herein lies the problem of flying to Atlanta. No one in their right mind is actually going to Atlanta for pleasure, but everyone--everyone.--is flying through Atlanta to get somewhere else (ahh, the joys of living in a Delta hub). So every flight to Atlanta is packed like it's the last helicopter out of Vietnam. I can't even count the number of hours I've spent waiting standby at Gate 2 (always Gate 2) of the Little Rock airport, but undoubtedly, it gets the award for Gate at which Most Time has been Killed by Jessica Merrill. And in case you're wondering, the Little Rock airport is among the world's worst in which to kill time. Past security, there is one bookstore, one newsstand, a small food court, two coffee shops, and one bar (which, I'm sorry to say, became a temptation). I was better at amusing myself on Day 1 of waiting, but by Day 2 I would have almost paid someone to come and talk to me. I could tell my emotions were getting the better of me when the Starbucks barista told me my small coffee (small coffee!) would be two dollars, and I nearly burst into tears (I'm not kidding).

So, after about 249 despondent phone calls to my mother, eight flights packed solid that I was not on, and hopeless forecasts from the gate agent for the next and last two, it was decided that the best option in Operation: Get Jess Home was for me to take a Greyhound.

So I thought to myself, if you must take a Greyhound, you might as well make it interesting...right?

And that's how I became Jih-ssica, the friendly New Zealander tourist.

Here Comes the Divide

2008-07-16T12:49:00.001-07:00

Today is the last day that all the Merrills live in the same house. Tomorrow, we drive to Searcy and prepare to give my sister away on Monday. And I don't feel the least bit ready.

The reality of it comes and goes. It came at me full force this morning around 5:30 am, as I lay in my bed and suddenly felt like I couldn't breathe.

What happened? Somewhere along the line, I feel like I've failed in some required twin individuation process. Sure, we have our differences--anyone who knows us knows how we hate being thought of as duplicates. Still, however unintentionally, our lives have basically followed the same trajectory until now. We went to the same college. We joined the same club. We sang in the same chorus. We eventually ended up with the same major. We lived in the same apartment for two years.

Of course, our paths started subtly diverging three years ago, when she went and fell in love and entered a world I know nothing about. I forestalled the inevitable conclusion for as long as I could, mentally willing her not to come back with an engagement ring every time she went out with her boyfriend.

But obviously, things change. They have to. And now I feel like the individuation is being forced on me in the most dramatic means possible: her last name is changing, and I'm moving to Africa. I don't know if this ripping-off-the-Band-aid separation is better than other ways of doing it or worse, and really, it's pointless to wonder, but I can't help myself. I feel foolish and melodramatic for bemoaning my loss when she'll still be just a phone call and eight time zones away, but it's a real loss and I wouldn't be doing it justice if I didn't mourn it, just for a little while.

Jennifer woke up when she heard me crying in bed this morning, and I pathetically asked her to come join me. So she did, and I cried, and then she cried, and we both got tired from crying. And then either she or I said something ridiculous, which made the other one laugh, and then we both kept on saying ridiculous things and dying with laughter. And after a couple of hours we decided we were hungry and went to Chick-Fil-A and got chicken biscuits.

And that's how things usually go with us. I'm just trying to see who's going to help me pick up my pieces when she's across the world from me, and not across the room.

We have seen better days

2008-07-15T09:19:00.000-07:00

I need this in my life...

Breathes into bag

2008-07-14T08:08:00.000-07:00

Must...not....explode....with...joy....

...and naturally, I'll be in Africa when he goes on tour.

perhaps there will be enough interest to justify a Kigali stop??? please??????

Ch-ch-ch-ch-chaaaaaan-ges

2008-07-07T21:28:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile. So, faithful readers (be ye any?), I give you a brief update on my life.

1) I am recently back from a glorious week and a half in Ormond Beach, FL, where I devoted most of my time to perfecting my frisbee throw, reading a book a day, and getting browner than anyone who doesn't know me in the summertime would believe (that's the thing about my skin; it's surprisingly versatile). The rest of my time was spent trying to hush the guilt that such a long period of worthlessness inevitably brings. My primary line of defense was that surely I deserved this period of unadulterated chill after the black hole of joy that was, so often, my final collegiate semester. It worked. Some of the time.

2) I am a little over a month away from My Big Move to Rwanda. That means, in short, that I have got to get some serious stuff in gear. My preparation so far has consisted of reading several books about the country. Oh, and I made an Africa mix for my Ipod. Which is crucial, but it won't protect me from yellow fever, so I should probably do something about those shots soon.

*In a related note, National Geographic seems to be forecasting my travel plans. Weeks before I left for China, this showed up in our mail. Now, with Rwanda on this horizon, this month we get one with this on it, with the question "Who Murdered the Mountain Gorillas?" The article was mainly about Rwanda's neighbor, the Dem. Rep. of Congo, but Rwanda is also famous for it's mountain gorillas and was included in the article. Weird, no? They didn't predict my trip to Florida, but I guess they can be forgiven for that.

and, most (de?)pressingly...

3) I am officially less than two weeks away from being the sister of Mrs. Jennifer Locke.

I think this picture says it best.

(For anyone missing the parallel, I'm the one on the left).

Ridiculous.

2008-06-19T09:54:00.000-07:00

Steve Perry got reincarnated. And he's not even dead.

This is not a metaphor.

2008-06-17T12:11:00.000-07:00

My sister got a rolling pin.

Sunday afternoon, our church threw her a shower. Among her wife-ly bounty she got muffin trays, cookbooks, a cake tray that doubles as a punch bowl...and a rolling pin.

June Cleaver uses rolling pins, not my sister.

[It's funny how a rolling pin in a giftbag, casually lying on the dining room table, can make you feel more than a stack of invitations, a dress, and a veil do.]

Mmmmm Whatcha Say?

2008-06-16T10:39:00.000-07:00

If you don't find this hilarious, we probably have nothing in common.

[Original posts coming soon, I promise.]

Juno, Interrupted

2008-06-13T14:33:00.000-07:00

Forgive me, but

the guy who wrote this deserves a Pulitzer.

Sheer genius. All I wanted to say about "Juno" but didn't know how.

Regrets, I've had a few....

2008-06-08T20:05:00.000-07:00

but then again,

let's leave the serious ones for another time, shall we?

Quasi-regret #1: I will never know what it was like to have "lived through the sixties."

Admit it, Baby Boomers. You relish your membership in this happenstance-of-birth club, and never tire of saying "you just had to be there." I cannot be the only member of my generation who feels somewhat inadequate about this.

Quasi-regret #2: Short legs are unlikely to ever be considered "desirable."

For that matter, clothing manufacturers seem unlikely to ever wise up to the fact that short-legged people exist.

Quasi-regret #3: Ever reading this article.

I was just contentedly reading my morning NPR last month, and this almost irrevocably spoiled my day. 22?!?! Are you kidding me?!?!

Quasi-regret #4: Being female, I am denied the distinctly masculine experience of growing a beard. At the risk of sounding Freudian, most people who know me sympathize with how cheated this often makes me feel.

Quasi-regret #5: I am not, nor am I likely ever to be, romantically involved with this man.

Okay, I'm going to go ahead and bump that last one up to full-fledged "regret." *sighhhhh*

It's the little things

2008-05-05T18:14:00.000-07:00

I recommended this book to one of the students in my pre-AP class when she asked which book I thought she should read.

I'll admit--I was somewhat hesitant to suggest it. It's (sadly) way above grade level from what most of my students read, and furthermore, I love it dearly. And as every good reader knows, recommending a book you love is like offering a piece of your heart. The rejection can be crushing.

I've been cautious about asking how she likes it, to ward off the potentially devastating blow. Today, though, they had their book reports due. Moment of truth.

She turned to me during 7th period. "Ms. Merrill," she said. "That was the best book I've ever read in my life."

She read it, she loved it. Maybe she'll remember that I recommended it to her (though it doesn't matter all too much if she does). Maybe it will influence some part of how she thinks about the world. Maybe she'll tell others to read it, and it will stay with them, too. Maybe I'm just overanalyzing things once again--but maybe that's okay.

It's not much. It's not even teaching, really--just sharing. But it's something.

I can hear the bells....

2008-04-23T14:32:00.000-07:00

I am drawing perilously near the end of my collegiate career. And here's a little something that should surprise no one: I have no clue what to do with myself after graduation.

Rather than coping with the natural reaction to this fact (i.e., hyperventilation and paralyzing fear), however, I can only rejoice as I endlessly chant this mantra to myself:

I am almost done with student teaching.

Let me say it again, for no one's benefit but my own:

I am almost. done. with student teaching.

I'll spare you all the laundry list of gripes I have with student teaching in general---99% of them relating to my indescribably lazy cooperating teacher, She Who Must Not Be Named. I'll spare you the thoughts that sleepless nights and endlessly whining students give birth to (among the more PG-rated: school-ditching daydreams such as If I called in a bomb threat, could anyone trace it? Can I willfully rupture my own appendix?) It's more than those things, though.

Never in my life have I felt as incompetent or isolated as I do in Room 18 of Riverview High School. And rarely ever would I succumb to and verbalize these feelings with such abandon. While at times I have the energy to put an optimistic, positive spin on things, I hope you'll forgive my present honesty--there's just such release, sometimes, in not trying to be cute or funny, and instead just admitting that there are so many days when my head's barely above water. But then again, there are days when it's clearly above the surface, and I can catch my breath. These days often follow each other, like a seesaw. I'm glad for that minute variety, I suppose--it's not much, though it does make the descent a little more manageable.

I'm afraid that I've become a negative person, and I'm not usually negative (at least, I hope not). Sometimes everyday feels like a head-on collision with the worst aspects of myself: my negativity, my pathetic fear of confrontation (even with 10th graders), my disorganization, my procrastination. An endless reminder of what I can't do; an endless frustration for why I can't seem to change. What scares me most is not knowing how much of my discontent stems from my situation, and how much is purely and simply my fault.

Does my unhappiness stem from inexperience, or inability? I'm not sure I want to know.

Nothing--especially school--is without its lessons, however. My student teaching has taught me two things. The first is simple and obvious: students who consistently do their work without complaining or presenting a thesis about why they don't have it done are precious, golden gifts from God. I have to restrain myself from falling on the ground and kissing their feet for the redemptive powers of their responsibilty.

The second is about bells. I have come to view bells as nothing less than sacred, much like Muslims view the daily calls to prayer. So many days each bell is a victory; audibal affirmation that I've survived another period, and that time is, in fact, passing. This is the most significant truth I've learned in the past 3 months: that even the longest, or the rowdiest, or the most frustrating periods eventually (and blissfully) end. Even the worst day has a bell at the end of it.

I'll spare you the obvious, cheesy real-life application. But I am thankful that it's there. And maybe not so cheesy at all--just true.

[thoughts on airports, and other things too]

2008-04-14T15:50:00.000-07:00

I have always adored airports, truly, deeply. Possibly because everytime I step foot in one I am 74% convinced that I will see Conan O'Brien, or some lesser celebrity (so far, my best is Jerry Springer). I will forever be grateful to my mother for working at Delta for twentysomething years, allowing me the means to travel, and to Georgia, for--incongruously enough--having the world's busiest airport. It always proved the perfect playground for my highly melodramatic elementary-school mind. There is an energy and possibility amongst all those people and suitcases and destinations and colliding cultures that is intoxicating, and hard to match elsewhere.

Furthermore, everything feels more important in airports. Make eye contact with a stranger on the train to your gate and you will feel like you just had the most meaningful interaction of your life. Every glance may be filled with longing and ache and imbued with whatever significance you choose--the chance of our encounters on earth, the inability to genuinely connect with others in the fast-paced modern world, the things we barely catch, or miss--or something else equally true but pretentious. Stare blankly at the tunnel whizzing past your window, lock eyes furtively with a lonely-looking stranger, and feel like you both just communicated the meaning of the world.

Crank up The Kinks on your Ipod and pretend that you are in a Wes Anderson movie.
(Even if you don't admit that's what you're doing, because you can't completely admit to somewhat liking him).

[I recognize and accept that the above description could just be me being completely ridiculous.]

I love how airports give you license to feel like the most important person in the world--much like driving on the interstate gives you license to feel like the smartest person in the world. I find this to be especially true if a) you are traveling alone, and b) (ladies) if you are wearing heels. For gentlemen, a sportscoat will suffice. This somewhat levels the playing field between you and the businessmen no doubt swarming your gate, armed with laptops and ear-fastened, hands-free cell phones, who, it must be said, seem to actually think they are the most important people in the world. Walk purposefully down the terminal. Deliberately check your watch in a harried manner. Talk tersely into your cell phone (even if no one is on the other line). You, my friend, are going places!

My sister and I used to have a game we played when we were fortunate enough to land first-class on a plane, due to my mother's sway over the standby list, cemented by her years of employee-ship. We called it "Kingsley and Stoneman." Kingsley and Stoneman were cutthroat New York businessmen who routinely called all their employees by their last names and fired them over the airplane dinner. The script went a little something like this:

Kingsley or Stoneman: [the following said in the most convincing Yankee accent that 5th grade Georgian girls could manage]: "Hey, Leibovitz, how are yeh? Yeh enjoyin' yeh vacation? Well, here's an idea: why don't yeh go ahead and make it PERMANENT?!?! That's right--YEH FOY-EHD!"

[That's right; Kingsley and Stoneman extensively utilized "you're fired" long before Donald Trump made it a catchphrase. Take note].

I sometimes wonder if airport businessmen are just caught up in the thrill of pretending.

[Do you ever feel officially grown up? Or do you spend most of your grown up moments as a bewildered, delighted impostor?]

I am starting a blog.

2008-03-27T10:57:00.000-07:00

...which, really goes without saying. But I feel that I must continue with all the "ooooh I"m starting a blog" preliminaries. Feel free to skip this post.

Why am I starting a blog?

Well, several reasons. First and foremost being that I am actually self-involved enough to believe that other people might be interested in what I have to say.

Secondly, I miss writing. And this is sortof writing.

Third(ly?), Harding blocks xanga, my previous blogspot. And my earth-shattering ideas shall not remain blogless for the little-over-a-month I have left until graduation. I've been silent long enough.

And lastly. Concerning the name...
My initials spell "jam", a fact that I have gladly capitalized on since the 6th grade. Nearly anything I have to do involving an internet nickname contains some form of "jam", hearkening back to my old Hotmail email account days at geminijam@hotmail.com. Dorkyjam, toastandjam, greeneggsandjam....actually, I've never used that one. And it's good...is it to late too rename this thing? Anyways. For now, Jamabajess! Like Jamba Juice, but combining my initials and my name...genius, no?

Okay. So not only am I self-involved to think that anyone is actually reading this in the first place...I take it one step further and assume people want to read a novel about how I came up with the blog name.

Clearly, my blogging career is off to a promising start.