Things to Do When You're Done

1. Bask in the sunshine and massage your aching writing arm.
2. Have a merry little bonfire with your notes.
3. Walk home the long way, laughing at the thousands of students moving out -- until you remember how much packing you have to do.
4. Read.
5. Eat celebratory uber-cheesy macaroni and cheese.
6. Watch bad daytime tv, guilt-free.
7. Write on your blog to try and make it seem real.

Cute Old Man

I just had a lovely long conversation with Dr. Logan, my fabulous Renaissance professor. He's like the sweet old grandfather I never had (one of my grandpa's having died before I was more than seven, the other being a physics professor who hates talking about artsy things). Of course, George would never like the idea that I think of him as a grandfather -- no one likes realizing they're old -- but the reality is he's of a different generation. It's kind of amazing actually; we talked a lot about politics, and I discovered he first came to Queen's in 1967 because he didn't like the Vietnam War. Even more amazing was when I'd mention people like Tommy Douglas and he'd say "Oh yeah, I saw him speak some years ago."

He and I commiserated over the decline of academia these days -- i.e., the fact that very few English teachers actually teach literature any more (they're too busy teaching philosophy and psychology and politics and all sorts of other things they don't actually know anything about). He also told me about growing up in small-town Kentucky with a banker for a father, and suddenly he was Jimmy Stewart in It's a Wonderful Life. It's unfortunate that I didn't get to know him sooner -- I wish I could have had more time to talk to mine his vast store of political, historical, and general knowledge.

He's sweet because he genuinely cares about his students, because he reminisces without being boring or rambling, and because he makes an effort to connect despite the fact he's obviously very shy (I think he looked me in the eye maybe once or twice in our hour-and-a-half talk). He is one of the best scholars Queen's currently has, and yet he's so very humble about it. He's just lovely.

[In other, less happy-fuzzy news, the Pig went wee-wee-wee all the way home to Toronto on Monday. I tried to write a post about that earlier, but as with most things which I'm actually pretty upset about, I found it too hard to explain in a way which was neither morose nor cheerful-through-repression. So let me just say this: I'm sad she's gone, the house seems empty, and I don't like change. I'm dealing with it, but I don't like it.]

Savage Love

Thanks to the ever-enlightening influence of Biku, I've read two books by Dan Savage in the last two weeks: Slouching Towards Gomorrah: The Seven Deadly Sins and the Pursuit of Happiness in America and The Kid: What Happened After My Boyfriend and I Decided to Go Get Pregnant. Besides his prediliction for titles which are exceedingly long (especially when you have to type them out), he's a good writer. I stayed up until 1:30 in the morning a day before my exam reading The Kid, which should tell you what I thought of it.

I read Slouching Towards Gomorrah first, and I have to admit I'm probably the first person ever to read a Dan Savage book for more than 100 pages without realizing that he's gay. I mean, the man writes an internationally syndicated sex-advice column (which I've read -- it's in NOW magazine, back near the scary advertisements that used to confuse me back when I was young and innocent) and is very open about being gay, and yet I didn't pick up on that for quite a while.

Not that that bothers me. It was just like what happens when you're reading a book and a character you were mentally imagining as black is suddenly described as having "alabaster skin" (yes, perhaps this is a very bad book -- just go along with me here...). It's not a problem, just a shift in perspective.

Anyways, back to Dan Savage, who is equal parts angry (at Republican Fundamentalist Christians), shocking (he is a sex advice columnist, after all), surprising (he isn't just a ranter, but will actually acknowledge when the people he's disagreeing with have a good point), and touching (he's got a way with a story, and a desire to be a good partner and father and person in a way I can admire). And he's funny, too, of course.

The only thing that gets me riled up in this book is, increasingly, the issue that seems most close to me. It's the assumption that the term "Christian" can be entirely equated with words like "Fundamentalist", "Republican", and "Homophobe". I feel an extreme urge to write a long letter to Dan Savage which starts something like this:

"Dear Dan, I enjoyed your books greatly. I think your description of anal sex is really funny, and you have some good points about "the pursuit of happiness" being something we can't circumscribe for everybody according to what makes us personally happy. I think you and Terry make great Dads, and I hope that your son grows up in a world where he feels accepted both for who he is and who his parents are. By the way, I'm a Christian. I believe in Jesus, and I also believe in a woman's right to choose, and your right to smoke pot and have sex with your boyfriend. I may not agree with everything you say, but I certainly agree with a whole hell of a lot more of what you say than what someone like Pat Robertson says. In fact, I'm not sure I agree with anything Pat Robertson says..."

It's a funny tightrope I walk, because I've found people have a lot of trouble equating the me that's a Christian with the me that believes in gay rights and leftist politics. But they're both the same me. However, I increasingly find myself feeling like I have to campaign to make my voice heard, that it's my duty to correct the near-overwhelming assumption that Christianity equals intolerance. But I believe Jesus (if you'll pardon the wholesale appropriation of Dan's column title) practices Savage Love too, and I don't mean the kind of Savage Love that says mostly "You can't..." or "You shouldn't..." I beleive that my faith is not antithetical to, but fundamentally involved in, my support of people like Dan who have been oppressed by society (he may have widespread acceptance within his family and friends, but his account of being 13, still closeted, and so stressed out he has bleeding ulcers, is harrowing reading). I try to love without judging, and while I still have my opinions (Dan's casual account of personal details makes me worry about his kid one day reading things no one should know about their parents), I am certainly no intolerant gay-bashing "true believer".

As a white, straight woman growing up in North America, I haven't exactly run across any prejudice. And, it must be admitted, I still haven't. But I don't like the look people get in their eyes when I tell them a Christian. I immediately go on the offensive, trying to say as many swearwords and casual political statements (So I voted for Jack Layton the other day...) in the next few minutes in order to counteract their assumptions.

I want a world where gay people can come to church without fear of rejection/judgment/people trying to "straighten" them, and getting to that world involves both having some heated debates with my fellow Christians and convincing people like Dan Savage that not all Christians are out to get him.

Why don't I get sentimental?

Times of departure/change always make me waver between thinking that I'm a terribly frigid person and just a realist. While other people cry and hug and get all morose, I am secretly looking for ways to depart quietly, without all the hoopla.

This isn't to say I don't miss people. I do. I can get quite emotional when leaving people I care about for long periods of time (getting on a plane to Japan for example, is something that I will need all five months I've got to steel myself up for). But this sort of corporate leave-taking that happens at the end of a school year or when graduating just kind of makes me feel fake. I figure either I know someone well enough that I will keep in touch with them when we've gone our seperate ways, or I don't know them that way and there's no need to pretend that we're bosom buddies when we're not. Occasionally I regret not getting to know some people better, but there's nothing I can do about that. And I certainly don't like to promise someone "I'll stay in touch!" or say "We'll see each other sometime!" if that's not really the truth.

I had my last big QCF event last night, and there's no doubt that that club (and the people in it) have dramatically affected my life. I have them to blame for so many things ... possibly going to divinity school, enjoying reading the bible, actually believing in wacky ol' christianity... ;) But as much as QCF has meant to me (and as much as I tried to get emotional last night) I just couldn't be the person who cries and bemoans the ending of "the best time of my life". My time there was great, and it has made me into the person I am today, but that doesn't mean that it shouldn't end. Everything ends, and we all move on.

I just hope this kind of ruthlessly pragmatic attitude doesn't mean I'm some kind of unfeeling robot who doesn't really care about people... or worse, someone who cuts herself off from really getting attached to people because she knows that they will eventually move apart... I know this isn't true, but I still kind of feel like I should be more affected by all this leaving stuff.

In Honour of Finishing My Classes

I don't normally write poetry, but thanks to Dr. George Logan's "Quasi-creative Poetry Assignment," I had to do a poem based on Ben Jonson's "Her Man described by her own Dictamen". Here's my version:

The Class Described By Her Own Dictamen

Of your trouble, George, to ease me,
I would tell what class would please me.
I would have it, if I could,
Start at noon – or later’s good.
When class began (not quite on time)
You’d tell a pun, or p’raps a rhyme.
From there, our praises you would laud,
Encourage us ourselves applaud:
“You are Minervas newly born,
and every blessed weekday morn
I wake with thanks to Gods above
That they should send me you to love
I think you all must be divine,
To be so smart – and still so kind!”
To this fair praise we’d lightly clap
And wait expectant – not for trap
(Though some do praise with cruel intent,
Saying sweet when bitter’s meant) --
Not you, you’d give us lit’ral sweets:
Like candies, fruits, and other treats
Which you’d proffer, on bended knee,
(Libations to our high degree
Of thought, of wit and of insight)
To demonstrate your great delight.
‘Twere too long to speak of all
What students do “a bird course” call
In every way, should this class be.
On that, we surely can agree.
Th’assignments should have extra marks,
(No harder, ‘course, than playful larks)
Those who wish’d would get an ‘A’
With no concerns about delay.
All the reading should be such,
As to take not time too much
And not o’er hard nor yet o’er long.
No answer should be right or wrong
But rather be, as oft I’ve said,
A mere digest of what one’s read.
No thinking should this class contain
Nothing to tax the student’s brain.
Such a class, in every part,
Warms me to my very heart.
But since such class I can’t attain
I will in this good seat remain.

Where have you been all my life?

I thought I knew it all.

I thought I had experienced the pinnacle of delicious pleasure.

And then...

I discovered how to add coconut milk to my curries.

Yum.