my father's father has always been a stranger to me. he was actually a stranger to my father most of his life. i have seen him twice. once when i was three we lived there for a long time while my mother was working in atlanta. and the other time was before my little sister who is now 13 was born.
so, tonight, out of absolutely nowhere, i decided to call him. i found his phone number (the wonders of the internet) and dug up all of my nerve...
and called. a smallish child answered the phone and i was petrified that i had only the information that he lives near atlanta and his name is jack and i was pretty sure (but not positive) on his last name and he invented plastic plants (yes, i am directly blood-related to the man who set those atrocities loose on the world) as in plastic house plants. the kid asked who was calling. i told him my name and that i thought jack knew me. he asked if it was about his foot. i said no and i was waiting for someone to yell "dad! phone!" so i could be humiliated to tell a stranger that i was looking for my grandpa and called the wrong man. but instead he said "grandpa phone" and i was slightly relieved. the kid turned out to be my cousin. i didn't know he existed, but when i got to talk to him, he told me he knew who i was, i have red hair and my picture is on the fridge, but i was six then. suddenly, i wished my first grade school picture was more flattering...
i talked to my grandpa for maybe half an hour. i'll know for sure when the phone bill comes. it was long enough to make me cry, but not long enough.....
i learned that he's diabetic and he had half his foot amputated recently. a family history of diabetes is enough information to make the call worthwhile if i never speak to him again... and for my whole 21 year life i have been denying that i had a family history of diabetes.
i learned that my aunt kelli is now 29 and is doing well and has a child. my grandpa was really nice to me. really nice. it made me want to jump into my car (which barely gets me to work some days) and drive to atlanta to hug him. he was actually happy to hear from me. i was so scared that whatever had caused him not to talk to my father or my aunts was going to make him hang up the phone.
i told him about my life and my sisters and he asked about my mom three times... he mentioned dad and just said to tell him hello and that he loves him and "short visits make long friends". i know they haven't spoken in more than ten years.
i had never heard that phrase before "short visits make long friends" but i really like it.
i gave him my phone number and i learned he makes it near here pretty often for the horse races when they are "in season" and he said he would call me. i don't know if i expect him to, but i know he meant it when he said it. he told me to call anytime and particularly if i was ever in atlanta.
so my brief interview with the man who invented plastic house plants (he figured out how to make them not smell funny, that was the key), was very informative. i don't know what happens from here, but i am glad i made the call, and i think i'll be finding a more recent photo of myself to mail off to georgia soon if nothing else.
-- mary ann
3/23/2001
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(((i'm livid.)))
a rant by knk
currently i'm on the verge of tears due to a current situation with a professor's grading of a paper of mine...
let me backtrack and also apologize to all of you who have been subjected to reading my shaky writings, as i never liked writing (or my writing skills) for a good portion of my life. if and what i write is more because i feel like i have something to say, and i have always highly disliked the idea of being a silent passive 'girl.' thus my reasonings for writing in general.
i would consider myself a good student, i show up to my classes (as difficult as that may be early in the morning on a freezing cold minnesota day), i actually make the effort of participating in my classes, i do my work, and even tho i might procrastinate a tad (but who doesn't).... i get good grades, even tho i somewhat question the idea of being graded (and would much rather learn without the trappings of being graded)... i dream of going off to grad school and being completely/continually immersed in the search/discussion of knowledge.....
it is my last semester of college. and i'm fulfilling those last requirements that over the years i either forgot about or they didn't fit into my schedule.... generally, i take classes on the basis of if it looks like it would be of interest to me, so i signed up for a class on scandinavian literary fairytales. (which seemed, at the time, would appease my interest in the form of fairy tale writing and also might be something outside of the realm of the theory which is the bulk of my major. the class actually looked like it would be good.) yet, i find myself in a class where i continually find moments where i would want to conflict with the professor (but because i've learned, conflicting with the profs generally isn't a good idea)... i'll grimace as he boils down all of freud, or all of marx into these bite sized pieces to manipulate in ways in which he can use against the stories we read. (i come from the line of thinking that if one is going to use a philosopher person to back up an argument, that you should be exposed and also expose the class to that writing. None of this has been done. Feminist theory is glossed over in a few words to a class full of neophytes to theories in general.) i have on several occasions objected to his screwing foucault into something completely unrecognizable.. but at that time, i only explained instead of attacking him. (thank you f.s., years ago to learning about the importance of 'i' vs 'you' statements.) so i write my paper for the class, on a topic which is quite close to my own heart and interests... i was extremely excited about the paper, and even sent copies of it to other people...
yet i wasn't excited to see it returned to me... completely marked up in red ink... for trivial reasons.
(did i mention yet that he isn't a native english speaker? perhaps this factors in a tad.)
i was completely livid when i first looked at the markings. i actually did cry... because not a single one had anything to do with the actual content or my progression of thoughts, but it was extremely critical about my usage of my mother tongue, english.
i will never claim to being an expert on the english language. as i hated english when i should've been learning grammar... there were other subjects of more importance.
and also, the writing skills that i have developed are completely as a result of spending a good portion of my life online... (and only because of online did i ever develop a taste for even writing a word.)
my major is writing intensive. it is what we do. and i enjoy it. (i'm even willing to stand up for the ancient idea of a senior thesis, because it seems to be an essential crowning moment of a major: cultural studies and comparative literature, which is focused on writing theory about theory.) but i don't write about fluffy literary texts in the way which the paper for this class required.
i went in and talked with the professor after class today. (after i had a bit of time to calm down... and thus think about it all.) i told him how i'm not an english major, i'm might not be the best at grammar... but the syllabus said nothing about being harshly graded on the grammar, it only mentioned that the content was of high importance.
and i told him that i didn't think he was justified in writing "Quite a good string of observations, but somewhat marred by 'unpolished' language." as the only damn thing he wrote about my actual content.
he railed on me for 45 minutes.
as being overheard (by my other class which is 30 minutes after the end of this prof's class) by others, they couldn't believe his tone of voice and the dumb things he was saying.
he spent a good portion of the time critiquing my usage of the 'meaning' instead of what he would rather 'means.' i told him that this is just semantics, and shouldn't affect my grade. but he thought it made the paper unreadable. we also had an argument over my usage of the word 'risk' instead of what he wanted the word 'sacrifice'.. because he didn't believe that the character saw the it as a risk, and i said that it isn't from her standpoint that i wrote my paper.. it is how i read the story, and it is from the reader's view that she (the character) took a 'risk'. then he said that i should say 'as a reader of this story....' instead of just writing the word 'risk' without being attached to saying it was from me. But the whole damn paper is from me, so i don't really see the need in justifying every line by taking up words saying "I believe" or "My understanding" or anything in the damn 1st person in general. saying the word "i" doesn't help add to my argument, i only see it as weakening.
we're studying hans christan andersen, a poor undereducated man, who had brilliant stories to tell but was always critiqued by his contemporaries on his grammar skills instead of the content of his stories.
3/22/2001
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i am not catholic, but i adore the trappist monks. everyone should visit
their nearest trappist monastery. they are the coolest people on earth.
there are a few reasons i love these monks. one, there's a woman living at
the monastery in kentucky and no one cares cause she's just as committed to
her religion and spirituality as they are. i think it's really cool that
they are monks who let girls be monks. equal opportunity in that monastery.
another thing that's awesome about these monks is that they make the best
cheesecakes and jellies in the world. okay, so it's not really a very deep
reason to love them, but they seriously make cheese and cheesecake and
jelly and bourbon that's fabulous. plus, when you buy it, you're giving to
a really great cause, these monks who do a lot for you...
which brings me to my third reason to love trappist monks. the whole
premise of their existence is that the world is so busy and so crazy that
not everyone has time to pray. so, they have it arranged so that at all
times, 24-7-365 there is always a whole monastery full of trappist monks
who are praying for all of humanity. and they just don't pray for your
immortal soul either. they pray for your health and well-being and
basically, they're just out there praying that you have a good day, all
day, and all night, every day. there's always a trappist monk looking out
for you and hoping you are happy. that rocks. when the whole world seems
against you, you can always remember there's a bunch of monks somewhere who
love you and hope it's going to be okay for you. you have to appreciate the
thought if nothing else. it makes me warm inside....
another thing to love about these monks is that they are really cool and
self-contained. they support themselves through their yummy food sales
(hand grown, handmade, hand packaged food with love from a monk who wants
you to be happy!) and they severely limit their contact with the outside
world that they devote their lives to helping.
only three monks in the whole monastery in kentucky talk to people from the
outside world. one is the one who runs the gift shop, one is the one who
gives the tours and the other is the one who answers the phone. the last
time i was there, one of my friends asked if they don't all want those jobs
and the tour guide laughed and so no. they really value being the one who
just wraps cheesecakes all day long and those other mundane jobs because it
frees their minds to think about other stuff.
there's really something in there, the idea that it's better to be able to
be self contained and just be able to be alone with your thoughts. i like
that a lot.
the first time i went to visit "my monks" in kentucky, i was just in awe of
this beautiful place where they live and this amazing existence that they
have chosen for themselves. i thought for months that i should be a
trappist monk. really, i did.
i mean, what better kind of people can you ask for? they ask nothing of
you, they don't want anything from you, they don't even want to talk to
you, and yet they dedicate their lives primarily to praying that good
things will happen to you. maybe you don't believe that prayer gets you
anywhere, but you have to love that these people are at least sending out
wishes for you to be happy. plus their whole like incredibly zen and
philosophical way of life, they all work, but the work they value most is
the work that frees their mind. i'm telling you, you should go and visit
your local nearest trappist monastery. pack a picnic. enjoy the sites
(there's some incredible stuff at the one in kentucky). take a tour.
learn about your monks. take home some food made with love.
"my monks" have their website at www.monks.org. go visit it. learn about
these people. they love you, love them.
--mary
3/21/2001
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