Sweep me off my feet, oh God;

Be my mooring and unsettling.

Confessions of a Former English Teacher

            >Insert introduction here<

I hate diagramming sentences.

            Don’t ask me an obscure grammar question.  I will have to look up the answer.

            I never actually took any of the courses I taught, and I taught a pretty impressive number of courses never to have taken:  Writing Lab, Fundamentals of Writing, Fundamentals of Writing I, Fundamentals of Writing II, English Composition I, English Composition II, Introduction to Literature, American Literature I, American Literature II, The American Short Story, and Creative Writing.  Blame it on a 1970s liberal arts education that had loose divisional requirements instead of the more stringent general educational requirements.  However, I did learn how to write by writing and, later, learn how to teach writing by teaching.

            I never took any education courses, either.

            So what did I take?  At Grinnell, intending to go into social work and majoring in German, I unintentionally bypassed the English department altogether except for my freshman tutorial in James Joyce, where I discovered that I did not know how to write a critical essay on symbolism in “Araby.”  How was I supposed to understand symbolism when I didn’t even understand the story?  Later, believing for a short time that I wanted to major in history, I took American Civilization I under the history department instead of the English department.  However, I took lots of German literature courses (reading in German) and a really fantastic Russian literature course (reading in English).  Eventually, I learned how to write literary essays by writing them (in English and in German) and by reading the elaborate comments of my professors.

            For my master’s degree at Central Missouri State University, I took the required literary research class, a linguistics class, and lots of literature classes.  I wanted to take advanced composition, but it was only offered at eight in the morning, and there was no way I could get my two-year-old to daycare, my five-year-old to kindergarten, and myself to campus (fifty miles away) that early on any morning.  

            So there you have it.  I am basically unqualified to do anything that I’ve done, but somehow I got into graduate school and afterward got my first teaching job, which lasted for the nineteen years until I quit.

            Let me assure you that by the time I quit, I pretty well knew what I was doing.

            But I still can’t stand diagramming sentences.

           

Word of the Day

            I have a lickerish for licorice.

            Let’s see . . . can you “have” an adjective for a noun?

            Just to clarify, here is the definition for my lickerishness for licorice:  “fond of and eager for choice food.”  And, I sincerely hope I haven’t missed any questionable connotations for lickerish.

            I remember happily snarfing down black licorice at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp with Sally.  Eating black licorice poses a problem for flutists.  Besides the black tongue and black mouth, there is the concern of little tiny pieces of licorice spewing forth from one’s mouth into one’s flute.  So we brushed our teeth a lot.

            Now, I do not mean to leave Barb out, but I’m stumped at this moment as to her fondness for licorice.  And anyway, she played bassoon, and I have no inkling of what if any problems licorice causes for double reeds

.

            (By the way, Barb, Sally, and I became the best of friends at music camp in 1970.  Barb and Sally are the ones who came all the way to Whidbey Island to celebrate my 55^th last August.)

            To this day, I enjoy a tasty morsel of black licorice now and then, but it has to be soft enough so it doesn’t pull out my crowns.  I’ve never lost my lickerish for licorice.

           

Tucson Tragedy

            Watching the special news report about the Tucson shootings, I keep wondering if the other part of the tragedy will be covered:  the story of our broken mental health care system.  Mention was made that Jared Loughner appears to be an emotionally disturbed young man.  The sampling of his Internet ramblings shows a person who is seriously mentally ill.  Tonight I am filled with sorrow for his parents.  Did they know how disturbed he was?  Had they tried to intervene?  Had he refused treatment?  It’s the last question that points to the tragedy behind the tragedy.

            I’ll admit right up front that I don’t know anything about Arizona’s mental health laws.  I do know, however, that in many states it is nearly impossible to maintain treatment for mentally ill adults without their consent.  

            At least forty percent of persons suffering from schizophrenia have impaired awareness of their illness.  How can a psychotic person be expected to know he or she is psychotic?  Without appropriate mental health laws to enforce treatment, many persons with severe mental illness go untreated.  Some, like Jared Loughner, end up acting on their delusions.

            Please don’t get me wrong.  I am not excusing his actions.  I am not excusing the political vitriol that has spewed forth from all sides in recent times.  But I also am not condemning his parents.  Perhaps they did their best to get help for their son.  Perhaps they did not.  But the grim fact remains that, unless Jared himself desired help and voluntarily stayed with a treatment plan, their efforts would be useless anyway.  There has to be a way to ensure that those who are ill and do not know it can receive the help they need.  Otherwise, tragedies such as these will continue to haunt the USA.

Endlessly, We Cycle

Endlessly, we cycle through the same questions and answers in less-than-one-minute intervals:

            “Did I take a shower last night?”

            “Yes.”

            “Is this the shirt I was going to wear today?”

            “That one goes in the dirty clothes.  This is the clean one.”

            “What am I supposed to do today?  I can’t remember.”

            “Today is Sunday.  You’ll be going out for lunch with John.”

            “Can you help me for a minute?  I have these shirts out.  What was I going to wear?”

            I hold the tie-dye shirt up to my nose.  Oops, this one isn’t clean, either.  I choose a patterned turtleneck and matching sweater to go with her corduroys.  This is way dressier than she usually chooses, but she thanks me, delighted with the new combination.

            When I leave for church, I will put my usual sticky note on the kitchen table that tells her where I am and reminds her that John will take her to lunch.

I am glad we are not in a hurry.  And I am grateful that John and I share caregiving.