I have too much stuff. I have wearied of a materialistic lifestyle, although I don’t know what I’d do without the gadgets I have amassed over the years (sarcasm). I have some collectibles, and a collection of coffee pots (which I do use occasionally). I have one possession that I treasure more than any, however, and that is a curio cabinet that my dad made for me.
It is in the form of a primitive pie safe, with no carving and no curves. Where there is punched tin in a pie safe, my dad put panes of glass. The cabinet is made from wood scavenged from a packing crate, and the glass was scavenged from the old windows that had been replaced in the house I grew up in. It’s stained in antique oak stain.
The only thing it’s lacking is my dad’s signature. My dad died several years ago, and I would have loved that reminder of him. But I have my dad’s work, and it is my most treasured possession.
When I was younger, I didn’t think much about legacies. I needed all my energy to go from day to day. At the same time, I wanted to do something big to be known by. I didn’t know what that would be, but I was going to do it. Oh, to be young and bipolar!
In my 50s, I wanted my stories to be my legacy. I still do, but very few people have read them, and they’re not picking up very much traction. So the messages in my stories remain unread, and that will not be my legacy.
I never thought much about my students being my legacy, mostly because I am not a popular teacher. I’m not by any means a bad professor, but since being prescribed meds, I am not the high-energy, zany professor I was before. (I’m also not the depressed professor I was before.) But maybe this is short-changing my abilities and my relationship with my students.
I am now convinced I will never know what my legacy is. Perhaps it will be simply being a kind person. Part of being bipolar and being medicated has been realizing how ordinary a person I am.
I competed in the Voice of Democracy contest held by the Veterans of Foreign Wars Auxiliary, which was held in the high schools. I had to write an essay about the topic “What Does Freedom Mean to Me”. I was born in a rather conservative town to rather liberal parents, and I turned out more liberal than they did.
When I got the assignment to write the essay, I included a popular topic of the day, Selective Service Registration. Or more to the point, protesting Selective Service Registration. At about this time, all males turning 18 were required to sign up for Selective Service, from which they would be drafted for military service if the country ever had a draft. Some males were not signing up, and of course the country was enraged. I, as a child during the Vietnam War era, thought I would stand up for their right to protest. In an essay to the VFW. I finally settled on “Freedom is the right to stand up for what one believes in, even if it’s not popular, and accept the consequences.”
When I read the essay to my mother in the kitchen, she said, “Good luck with the ladies at the VFW.”
And then I won the local contest. “They must not have read it,” my mother deadpanned.
I had to compete at the district level, which consisted of reading the essay on radio. I got to read my protest piece over the airwaves by invitation of the women of the VFW. My mother was still laughing. We figured at that level, I would lose to the unctuous young man who compared the country to a family and didn’t even mention freedom, and we were right. But that was okay with me; I made my point on the air and that was enough.
When I was in graduate school, I got hit by a car. I was a pedestrian crossing a street with a friend, and the car merged into traffic — or, rather, merged into me. I had stepped forward when I saw her coming toward me, and I stepped back, but not in time. I rolled over the hood of the car and ended up in a sitting position on the pavement.
“Is your hip okay?” my friend screeched.
“My hip is fine. My leg is broken.” I exuded an eerie sense of calm.
“How do you know?”
“Because when I lift my leg, my foot feels like it’s not going anywhere.”
The woman who hit me had a cell phone (an amazing thing in 1991) and called the ambulance. When they arrived, they bundled me onto a stretcher. “Which hospital do you want to go to?”
“Well, let’s see. Which one does my insurance take?”
“She’s paying for your hospital bills.”
“Ok. Which one has the better cafeteria food?”
“You’re going to Carle. It’s the trauma hospital.”
“Ok.”
I didn’t feel much pain as they loaded me into the ambulance. I felt the bumps. I was pretty sure the only place I was hurt was the leg.
By the time I got out of head-to-toe x-rays, five of my friends were there to see me. They warned me that my parents were on their way from about two hours’ north. I was hurting, and finally a nurse gave me morphine. (I’ve been told that I’m pretty funny on morphine.)
All I had was a broken leg, but about an inch of bone was shattered. I understood they were going to take me to my room and then wait for surgery. As I was being pushed through the ward by a burly red-headed nurse, he grabbed the phone, held it out for me, and said, “You know who this is.” I got an earful from my mother, who was absolutely sure I got hit by the car to stress her out. Then he wheeled me past my room (“there’s your room”) and then to the operating room.
Over the next couple of days, I had many visitors. My friends took it upon themselves to run interference with my mom, who thought they were all very nice people. I was on a morphine drip and utterly hilarious.
I spent the next 8 weeks on mostly bedrest, and I didn’t know why they wouldn’t let me go back to my regular activities until I fell a couple times the first week. Then I spent 6 months on crutches, another surgery to put a bone graft and metal bar in, and three months using a cane. I limped for a good few years; now, I have bad arthritis in my knee from the long-ago injury.
It could have been worse. It could have been so much worse. It was probably worse than I thought it was, to be honest. But I survived and made my way through grad school on crutches. And now, other than having to be pat down every time I’m in an airport, I’m doing fine.
I have a PhD in Family and Consumption Economics from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. I received it in 1993, so it was a long time ago. It was probably my biggest sacrifice, spending 7 more years out of the workforce.
It didn’t feel like a sacrifice at all. I was self-supporting throughout grad school (although assistantship pay is hardly extravagant). I relished my time with fellow grad students, and I had time to sit on the Quad and watch people. I did have mood swings during this time and spent some of it depressed, but most of graduate school was idyllic.
To me, sacrifices never feel like sacrifices. They feel like life. In one moment, I am earning much less to make my way through graduate school. In another, I am taking time to help someone else with a class. A choice made, the consequences accepted. Just life.
I am not a leader. I am not a follower. I am the person who works the best and fastest on my own.
I have some leadership opportunities, chairing one committee in my department. I don’t feel I do a good job of it. People let me do it, but I feel like (American proverb here) a fish out of water when I do it.
As a follower, I am impatient. Mercifully, my chair and assistant chair believe in short faculty meetings, so following is not
so painful. I do what I’m told, so I’m not a bad follower, I guess, but it’s not my natural state of being.
I really want to be in my own office, completing tasks from my personal checklist. When I have scheduled time, I’m a rockstar, checking things off my list. I prefer brainstorming on my own to sitting in a meeting. And when I brainstorm with others, I prefer they be an equal to either a superior or a follower.
Left to my own, I’m a loner, I guess. If I have to choose between leader and follower, I would be a follower, but it’s not my natural state. I’d rather work on my own, thank you.
I don’t eat healthy enough. I eat a lot of processed food because we don’t have a lot of time or energy to cook at the end of the day. Between Richard’s job and his share of the housework, and my work and writing, we just don’t have the energy to do more than open a jar of spaghetti sauce or eat some faux lobster dip with crackers. It’s a wonder that my stomach hasn’t reached up and strangled me at some point.
It’s not that I dislike vegetables, even. When I eat vegetables, they’re the best thing on earth if ripened well and not overripe or spoiled. I have very good tastebuds and I can tell if a tomato or cucumber is a bit off. Right now I’m craving an Indian vegetarian dinner of channa masala, saag with turnips, and chutney. Or a Thai cucumber salad and some green chicken curry. Or a stir-fry with peanut sauce.
We’re putting in a vegetable garden this year. I hope that entices me to eat more vegetables. I’m also putting in an herb garden for the same reason.
Revamping one’s diet is not a little change, but a big one. Wish me luck.
As an American with progressive leanings and a desire for globalism, the public figure I agree with the most is Donald Trump. I could throw the rest of his cabinet in for good measure, but I’m going to focus on Trump today.
I’m going to spare you readers the commentary on his personal attributes of vanity, venality, and probably narcissism, because this essay is supposed to be about disagreement.
I disagree with Trump’s overuse of executive orders to reshape the government, bypassing Congress. The legislative branch exists for a reason, and is vital to our democracy.
I disagree with Trump’s viewpoint that the purpose of government is as a despotic tool of revenge. There are plenty of examples of this, from revoking security clearances for past Democratic opponents to firing prosecutors for their roles in prosecuting January 6th rioters.
I disagree with Trump’s denial of due process toward people he deems as undocumented aliens. Due process exists for a reason — it’s in the Constitution.
I disagree with Trump’s dismantling of DEI programs, which sought not to favor women and people of color, but to give them equal access. I disagree with Trump’s efforts to rewrite public history, removing these people’s accomplishments.
I disagree with Trump’s every Cabinet pick, as they seem to be chosen as the least competent people for the jobs.
I disagree with Trump’s destructive purge of government employees and organizations, especially those which protect Americans. Cutting government spending can be done thoughtfully, as was evidenced in the Clinton administration.
I do not just disagree with Trump. I protest his heavy-handed, anti-American actions.
I’m 62 years old, an associate professor, and five years from retirement. This is the time where people with careers coast until retirement rather than thinking about promotion-type ventures.
What is my career plan? For the most part, doing the best job I can until I retire. This means teaching, a bit of research, revamping classes, and possibly writing up a new class. There’s going to be a little bit of helping with curriculum revision, and always summer interns. Nothing new or surprising on that front.
I don’t want to go up for full professor because of the stressors of paperwork and worthy research — I have tenure; that was what I needed. I need life balance.
As far as the writing goes (I guess that’s a hobby rather than a career, but I’m going to talk about it anyhow) I am going to keep writing. When I retire, I will have more time to write and will have to write to keep my sanity in retirement. I don’t do nothing well. Maybe I will find the secret to promoting my work. Maybe I will write a best-seller. I don’t foresee anything else unless I turn a hobby into a more considerable operation, such as going professional with my moulage. I haven’t gotten to that quality; it would be fun if I had.
That’s my career in a nutshell. At my age, it’s not exciting.
The last concert I’ve been to was the Gesualdo Six, a British a cappella group who performs vocal music from medieval to modern compositions. Mostly older.
The concert was held in McCray Auditorium, which is housed in an older building whose lobby looked like a courtyard. Very English Gothic, I’m told. Not a bad building for the Gesualdo Six.
The Gesualdo Six were fabulous. I have an eclectic taste in music, but one of the things I love is good harmony. I can’t play-by-play the concert like I was a music critic, but the soaring harmonies are what I will remember.
The concert I saw before the Gesualdo Six? The Hu, a Mongolian heavy metal band. Did I mention I have eclectic taste in music?
Words Like Me 