My paternal grandfather was born in 1918. He had to quit school after the second grade because he had to get a job and help out the family. My father was born in 1947. He graduated high school before he plunged into the workforce. I was born in 1977 and went as far as graduate school.
I've been thinking recently about sacrifice. Both my grandfather and my father worked hard all their lives (in fact, my father is 60 and is still working hard) and sacrificed comforts in order for their children to have things a little better, to take the family one step further. It worked. They made things comfortable enough for their children to have opportunities that they never had. Each generation has taken a small step up the social ladder.
But then there's me. I feel like my generation has hit a dead end. What sacrifices can I make to make things better for my children? Sure, they may become more successful than me; but if they do, it'll be by virtue of what they've done for themselves rather than what I do for them.
I know this may sound like a petty thing to worry about. Perhaps my problem is one of definition: I think of success solely in financial terms. But if I think about success some other way, say, in terms of happiness, that still leads me with no sacrifices to make to ensure that my children's lives are better.
Where do we go from here?
Monday, April 30, 2007
My War: Killing Time in Iraq by Colby Buzzell
I just finished My War by Colby Buzzell. I read it because I was writing a war story and, since I have never been in the armed services, I wanted to learn a little of the lingo so the story would seem more real. After reading Buzzell, I don't know if I'm going to finish my story. I don't think I could tell it as well as it's already been told. We'll see.
I hate book reports and reviews. If you want to know what the book is about, read it yourself or just read the synopsis on Amazon. And no one would care if I liked the book or not.
There were, however, some thoughts that I had as a reult of having read the book.
Buzzell mentions Jello Biafra, former singer of the Dead Kennedy's and political activist. As a young, stupid teenager, I was a fan of the Dead Kennedys, though as an older, stupid man, I can't see what about the music was appealing. Biafra also released a few spoken-word CDs. I bought one, listened once to hours of him talking and talking (I was too young to care about what he was talking about), then promptly traded in the CD.
There was one message that stood out: become the media. Biafra praised Buzzell for the soldier's idea to post first-hand accounts of his experience in Iraq, including accounts of the battles he was in. Buzzell also reproduces the official News accounts of those battles, and the discrepancies, euphemisms, and flat out lies told by the army and perpetuated by the media make Buzzell a seemingly good candidate for the anti-war movement. The blurbs on the book seem to say as much.
But what makes My War so different is it's more complicated than that. People in the US aren't getting an accurate picture from the army and the media of what's going on in Iraq; but that doesn't change the fact that Buzzell deeply believes that the invasion wasn't necessarily a mistake, and he supports this argument with conversations he had with Iraqis on the base and positive accounts of his contact with Iraqis while on missions.
This leaves the book in an odd place. On the one hand, it's critical of the media (not for the same old "liberal bias" that conservatives like to trot out) for the inaccuracies that it accepts and then passes on. But the book doesn't turn into an anti-establishment jeremiad. In one word, it's honest. That honesty is apparent throughout the book.
Buzzell is a good writer who got his start as a blogger. But don't take my word for it--read the book yourself.
I hate book reports and reviews. If you want to know what the book is about, read it yourself or just read the synopsis on Amazon. And no one would care if I liked the book or not.
There were, however, some thoughts that I had as a reult of having read the book.
Buzzell mentions Jello Biafra, former singer of the Dead Kennedy's and political activist. As a young, stupid teenager, I was a fan of the Dead Kennedys, though as an older, stupid man, I can't see what about the music was appealing. Biafra also released a few spoken-word CDs. I bought one, listened once to hours of him talking and talking (I was too young to care about what he was talking about), then promptly traded in the CD.
There was one message that stood out: become the media. Biafra praised Buzzell for the soldier's idea to post first-hand accounts of his experience in Iraq, including accounts of the battles he was in. Buzzell also reproduces the official News accounts of those battles, and the discrepancies, euphemisms, and flat out lies told by the army and perpetuated by the media make Buzzell a seemingly good candidate for the anti-war movement. The blurbs on the book seem to say as much.
But what makes My War so different is it's more complicated than that. People in the US aren't getting an accurate picture from the army and the media of what's going on in Iraq; but that doesn't change the fact that Buzzell deeply believes that the invasion wasn't necessarily a mistake, and he supports this argument with conversations he had with Iraqis on the base and positive accounts of his contact with Iraqis while on missions.
This leaves the book in an odd place. On the one hand, it's critical of the media (not for the same old "liberal bias" that conservatives like to trot out) for the inaccuracies that it accepts and then passes on. But the book doesn't turn into an anti-establishment jeremiad. In one word, it's honest. That honesty is apparent throughout the book.
Buzzell is a good writer who got his start as a blogger. But don't take my word for it--read the book yourself.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Reality Ain't What It's Cracked Up To Be
My son spent most of the first seven months of his life crying. Colic, they said. Those months have now made it possible to determine my age by counting the lines under my eyes, like a tree. But if it weren't for his crying, my family and I wouldn't have made our first appearance on reality television.
A new TLC show was interested in filming us, so others could see what we were going through and how we cope, and maybe use what they learn to help themselves. In reality, no matter how bad things are, as a parent, all you can do is do. You just do what you have to. Or you can crack. But that advice would make for an uninteresting show, and we really wanted to be on TV, so we agreed.
"Reality" isn't the best word to describe what qualifies as reality television. "Reality" implies that what you are seeing is a slice of the real world. From the beginning, however, what we did was nothing like the reality that we lived every day.
In preparation for the show, we had our families come over to help us clean the house. Our house was brand new when we moved into it, and even then it wasn't as clean as it was the night before TLC came. What the house looked like was nothing like reality.
Then there was the candid interview with my wife and I standing in the kitchen, leisurely enjoying a cup of coffee by the counter (something we hadn't done since our first child). Except we couldn't have coffee because we were miked and the sounds that your stomach makes while drinking coffee would be audible. So we started to drink a mug of ice water as we began fielding the questions from the director (yes, there was a director). Then we had to cut because the clinking of the ice in the cups was too loud. When we began to answer the same question for the third time, we had to cut again so they could put a band-aid on my wedding ring. They wouldn't let me take it off, but I was clinking it against the cup.
The interview continued after these kinks were ironed out. We then went on a roll, answering questions with much more care and precision than we would normally use. I was OK, but my wife was great. In fact, there were times when she was downright eloquent. "Cut," the director would say. "Say that again. Bob (the camera guy), get a close up on her for that."
Instantly I began a revisionist history of reality television. How many of my favorite moments had been done on multiple takes? Did the director yell "Cut!" when Sue was giving her snake and rat speech on the first season of "Survivor?" How many takes did it take to kick Puck off of "The Real World?"
Then there was the edited version of the show. There were four other families showcased during our episode. One was a Canadian woman of Pakistani decent whose husband took frequent business trips. She talked about her concern with being a Muslim woman alone in post-9/11 America, and about how she rarely left the house with her daughter because of the looks she got. Then they cut to footage of the woman taking her child for a walk. Another woman walks past her, and a second later that woman does a double take. A perfect illustration of the mom's concern--except the passer-by was one of the show's producers.
But the biggest alteration of reality was what we had to do to my son. The day the cameras arrived happened to be the best day of his life (up to that point). He was cooing, smiling, laughing--no crying whatsoever. That didn't work for the show, so we had to do things (I won't go into specifics, but pain wasn't involved) to make him cry. It worked. They had their footage. And my son has a story to tell his therapist in about twenty years.
Perhaps I was naive to think that the "reality" of reality television had anything to do with the real world. All the word means is that the characters don't get paid. I learned that from the show too.
A new TLC show was interested in filming us, so others could see what we were going through and how we cope, and maybe use what they learn to help themselves. In reality, no matter how bad things are, as a parent, all you can do is do. You just do what you have to. Or you can crack. But that advice would make for an uninteresting show, and we really wanted to be on TV, so we agreed.
"Reality" isn't the best word to describe what qualifies as reality television. "Reality" implies that what you are seeing is a slice of the real world. From the beginning, however, what we did was nothing like the reality that we lived every day.
In preparation for the show, we had our families come over to help us clean the house. Our house was brand new when we moved into it, and even then it wasn't as clean as it was the night before TLC came. What the house looked like was nothing like reality.
Then there was the candid interview with my wife and I standing in the kitchen, leisurely enjoying a cup of coffee by the counter (something we hadn't done since our first child). Except we couldn't have coffee because we were miked and the sounds that your stomach makes while drinking coffee would be audible. So we started to drink a mug of ice water as we began fielding the questions from the director (yes, there was a director). Then we had to cut because the clinking of the ice in the cups was too loud. When we began to answer the same question for the third time, we had to cut again so they could put a band-aid on my wedding ring. They wouldn't let me take it off, but I was clinking it against the cup.
The interview continued after these kinks were ironed out. We then went on a roll, answering questions with much more care and precision than we would normally use. I was OK, but my wife was great. In fact, there were times when she was downright eloquent. "Cut," the director would say. "Say that again. Bob (the camera guy), get a close up on her for that."
Instantly I began a revisionist history of reality television. How many of my favorite moments had been done on multiple takes? Did the director yell "Cut!" when Sue was giving her snake and rat speech on the first season of "Survivor?" How many takes did it take to kick Puck off of "The Real World?"
Then there was the edited version of the show. There were four other families showcased during our episode. One was a Canadian woman of Pakistani decent whose husband took frequent business trips. She talked about her concern with being a Muslim woman alone in post-9/11 America, and about how she rarely left the house with her daughter because of the looks she got. Then they cut to footage of the woman taking her child for a walk. Another woman walks past her, and a second later that woman does a double take. A perfect illustration of the mom's concern--except the passer-by was one of the show's producers.
But the biggest alteration of reality was what we had to do to my son. The day the cameras arrived happened to be the best day of his life (up to that point). He was cooing, smiling, laughing--no crying whatsoever. That didn't work for the show, so we had to do things (I won't go into specifics, but pain wasn't involved) to make him cry. It worked. They had their footage. And my son has a story to tell his therapist in about twenty years.
Perhaps I was naive to think that the "reality" of reality television had anything to do with the real world. All the word means is that the characters don't get paid. I learned that from the show too.
Friday, April 27, 2007
End of Semester Blues
As a student I always struggled at the end of the Spring semester. I don't know why. Maybe it was the changing of the weather, or the anticipation of Summer break, or the fact that the Christmas break isn't long enough to recharge the batteries. Whatever the reason, my worked sucked in the Spring.
I teach writing classes, and I primarily teach from class discussions of homework readings. I don't do many notes. If I run out of things to say and the students contribute nothing, class usually ends early.
My teaching at the end of the Spring semester is much like my work as a student was at the end of the Spring semester. It sucks. I have a tough time getting motivated to prepare for class, and it often shows. At least I think it shows, which brings me to my question: do the students realize this? I can't remember ever noticing this about my teachers when I was a student. Or do they even care?
I taught briefly in a high school a couple of years ago. I had one overpopulated class of bad kids. I didn't know what to do and they intimidated the hell out of me. But I thought I did a good job of faking it. I had a coteacher, who was also new, and who was struggling just like me.
Then one day I collected their writing journals, which I made them write in for five minutes every class. This kid who always gave me problems and never seemed to pay attention wrote this kernel of truth:
"I think we need new English teachers because they is scared of us."
From the mouths of babes...
I don't think I give my current college students enough credit. I just think they don't care. That to me is just as scary as a teacher who slacks off.
I teach writing classes, and I primarily teach from class discussions of homework readings. I don't do many notes. If I run out of things to say and the students contribute nothing, class usually ends early.
My teaching at the end of the Spring semester is much like my work as a student was at the end of the Spring semester. It sucks. I have a tough time getting motivated to prepare for class, and it often shows. At least I think it shows, which brings me to my question: do the students realize this? I can't remember ever noticing this about my teachers when I was a student. Or do they even care?
I taught briefly in a high school a couple of years ago. I had one overpopulated class of bad kids. I didn't know what to do and they intimidated the hell out of me. But I thought I did a good job of faking it. I had a coteacher, who was also new, and who was struggling just like me.
Then one day I collected their writing journals, which I made them write in for five minutes every class. This kid who always gave me problems and never seemed to pay attention wrote this kernel of truth:
"I think we need new English teachers because they is scared of us."
From the mouths of babes...
I don't think I give my current college students enough credit. I just think they don't care. That to me is just as scary as a teacher who slacks off.
About Me
The title of my blog is an homage to my previous two attempts at blogging. I was never able to get them going because I always wound up writing things that I thought were self-indulgent. Maybe that was true. But it seems now like that was just my rationalization to avoid writing. I find writing to be one of things that I'd least like to do; but it's also the thing that I'm most proud at having done.
I've always wanted to be a writer (maybe it's masochistic desire). When I go a while without writing anything, I think of "Little Cloud" by James Joyce. You know, about the pathetic guy who thinks he has some great poems in him, which he plans to write sometime. That usually gives me some motivation.
Recently I enrolled in a short story writing class. It was the first time I had to do that kind of writing, and I was surprised that my stuff wasn't terrible.
That class just ended, so I'm looking for the kick-in-the-ass that I need for motivation. I hope anyone who reads this blog enjoys it. But writing is a solitary activity, and I'm keeping this blog solely for me.
I've always wanted to be a writer (maybe it's masochistic desire). When I go a while without writing anything, I think of "Little Cloud" by James Joyce. You know, about the pathetic guy who thinks he has some great poems in him, which he plans to write sometime. That usually gives me some motivation.
Recently I enrolled in a short story writing class. It was the first time I had to do that kind of writing, and I was surprised that my stuff wasn't terrible.
That class just ended, so I'm looking for the kick-in-the-ass that I need for motivation. I hope anyone who reads this blog enjoys it. But writing is a solitary activity, and I'm keeping this blog solely for me.
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