Development.
A decade ago I was in grad school, working toward a Phd, and I was teaching my first class at Hofstra. It was my first semester adjuncting, to supplement my stipend from TAing . . . those days are always filled with many things, ideals, and outright fears. My 8-o-freaking-clock classes passed on, and I came to know my colleagues . . . Perhaps I should note that I am not the "famous" adjunct who got arrested that term. In class.
Yea, a favorite professor brought in a civil war weapon, and some shit called the Nassau poe poe saying there was a sniper on the Hofstra campus. John was hauled off in silver bracelets. *Excuse me while I laugh--like a retarded jackass--at the very fine memory of the chair telling me to not bring weapons to class . . . at John telling me the tale of having to the call the chair to bail him out . . . at the talk on campus. Good times.*
None-the-less, to this day I get jitters when giving my lecture involving the Comstock Laws. When the planes crashed I was teaching that . . . When the towers fell I was beginning a lecture, for my second class of the early morning, on Colonial New England. I'm not up for reliving the following hours, but I will say this.
Last night, after fighting for two hours to get a damned dryer at the laundry mat (and seriously, I was half a snap from going a little bit whole lot bitchy before one of the block's Spanish ladies intervened for me), I carried my large and loaded twenty plus year old Army duffel bag and Monument Ave 10K bag down the hill and up the stairs to my abode. As usual, I am certain I am a sight tottering down the street with laundry every week . . . ratty sweats and hair in a messy clip aside. The five-foot-three woman flexing her muscles with a bag of laundry two-thirds of her height bopping along to her iPod is always great fodder for a comedic movie scene. Schlepping that shit home made me tired, well not entirely, but it was nearing eleven. I opted for sleep saying I'd put my clothes away in the morning. What? Don't judge. Sleep overcomes the need to put things away in their pigeon holes of respectable aesthetic decorum.
Well, my eleven pm sleep got side railed as just after ten pm the internet chatter started. Should I be proud to say I was one the first of my friends to post about it? I generally stay away from politics here (well, except for the cause of Lupus and health care and living wages . . . okay, so I don't, but we can fucking pretend), but let's face it I am a political junky and borderline whore. What? If I haven't read at least ten news articles, two academic pieces, and one book review a day I feel like a blob of fatty McGee stupidity. More on point, I feel like one of those old public service announcement commercials saying "this is your brain on pot" and parts of the screen would go black. So . . . politics, reading, and controversial topics are my smart pill (not "controversial" like what dress should Princess Kate wear or Natalie Portman being unmarried and pregnant: I'm talking controversial like the fucking Republicans launching a war on women by attempting to remove and dismantle funding for Planned Parenthood since attempts to destroy Roe v. Wade have failed). None-the-less, US forces caught the fucker known as Osama Bin Laden. You know, the "mastermind" behind the terror network responsible for 9-11. Okay, so US forces didn't really catch him . . . they shot him in the head. Dead as a fucking doornail he is now.
So, the point behind this Monday afternoon diatribe with no singular subject in mind--aside from the larger issue of memory and historical moments and the use of the word fuck--is little. Not sure if there is a point today, aside from the fact that we already know I have a history of having crazy stories for my life and doing stupid things for key historical moments of life. Though . . .
In the wee hours of the morning, as the city sat in a eerie silence as we knew hours before the chatter started that something grave and shaking was up from the poe poe driving with lights and no sirens, the scores of officers seemingly billowing from the subway openings and every orifice of the city, and flashing road signs marking a heightened terror alert told the NYer that our historical moment was back again. Sometimes life in this city lets you by pass and ignore the continually changing and heightening terror alerts, but moments like yesterday . . . .lights devoid of sirens, waves of blue drifting throughout the city, and the eerie silence after we greeted strangers asking if they knew the news and post Obama addressing the nation . . . a small gathering occurred at ground zero, very different from the jubilant crowds signing " We Are The Champions" outside the White House.
And people like me all too quickly began to think about the foreign policy consequences, the threats we will now face, and the retaliation. Someone sent me a text asking if the War on Terror is over, and I responded with a "What do you fucking think?" as I deemed the question too moronic for civility. Someone else asked if "we are on the verge of World War III." I responded with "nope." Her response was unkind, as she asked what I had been drinking. Me: "World War III is an ideological construct, and the way we frame and interact with war is different than the post World War II era. Technically, World War III has already occurred." That seemed to quell the issue.
As for the issues of the moment . . . only time will tell. In the larger scheme of things, one day I'll tell the tale of doing laundry as the moment of what I did when Bin Laden's announcement was made. Much like, as these things go, when Saddam was captured I was shoveling my silver Escort from three plus feet of snow in Huntington Station, NY (as I lived there back then), I was teaching when the towers fell, and I was packing to go to Turkey when Saddam was hung. Okay, so the last one is somewhat romantic and exotic--giving me street creed--but the simple matter resides. Life can not halt, nor does it, for these moments and ideological constructions. Wounds are still raw, with the healing scabs angrily pulled off with terror alerts, anniversaries, and the death of a "leader." The days ahead will be filled with wonder, awe, fear, and stagnation. Until we know what the next phase is, or what we should do to counter the threat, all we can do is live like we normally do. Perhaps I could do with less sightings of the exs in traffic, bad dates, piss ant students who stink of entitlement, and Sunday nights of laundry but these are the makings of a life. The larger moments of history are the spurts along the way, which provide us markers to judge our growth, death, and eventual development.
Yea, a favorite professor brought in a civil war weapon, and some shit called the Nassau poe poe saying there was a sniper on the Hofstra campus. John was hauled off in silver bracelets. *Excuse me while I laugh--like a retarded jackass--at the very fine memory of the chair telling me to not bring weapons to class . . . at John telling me the tale of having to the call the chair to bail him out . . . at the talk on campus. Good times.*
None-the-less, to this day I get jitters when giving my lecture involving the Comstock Laws. When the planes crashed I was teaching that . . . When the towers fell I was beginning a lecture, for my second class of the early morning, on Colonial New England. I'm not up for reliving the following hours, but I will say this.
Last night, after fighting for two hours to get a damned dryer at the laundry mat (and seriously, I was half a snap from going a
Well, my eleven pm sleep got side railed as just after ten pm the internet chatter started. Should I be proud to say I was one the first of my friends to post about it? I generally stay away from politics here (well, except for the cause of Lupus and health care and living wages . . . okay, so I don't, but we can fucking pretend), but let's face it I am a political junky and borderline whore. What? If I haven't read at least ten news articles, two academic pieces, and one book review a day I feel like a blob of fatty McGee stupidity. More on point, I feel like one of those old public service announcement commercials saying "this is your brain on pot" and parts of the screen would go black. So . . . politics, reading, and controversial topics are my smart pill (not "controversial" like what dress should Princess Kate wear or Natalie Portman being unmarried and pregnant: I'm talking controversial like the fucking Republicans launching a war on women by attempting to remove and dismantle funding for Planned Parenthood since attempts to destroy Roe v. Wade have failed). None-the-less, US forces caught the fucker known as Osama Bin Laden. You know, the "mastermind" behind the terror network responsible for 9-11. Okay, so US forces didn't really catch him . . . they shot him in the head. Dead as a fucking doornail he is now.
So, the point behind this Monday afternoon diatribe with no singular subject in mind--aside from the larger issue of memory and historical moments and the use of the word fuck--is little. Not sure if there is a point today, aside from the fact that we already know I have a history of having crazy stories for my life and doing stupid things for key historical moments of life. Though . . .
In the wee hours of the morning, as the city sat in a eerie silence as we knew hours before the chatter started that something grave and shaking was up from the poe poe driving with lights and no sirens, the scores of officers seemingly billowing from the subway openings and every orifice of the city, and flashing road signs marking a heightened terror alert told the NYer that our historical moment was back again. Sometimes life in this city lets you by pass and ignore the continually changing and heightening terror alerts, but moments like yesterday . . . .lights devoid of sirens, waves of blue drifting throughout the city, and the eerie silence after we greeted strangers asking if they knew the news and post Obama addressing the nation . . . a small gathering occurred at ground zero, very different from the jubilant crowds signing " We Are The Champions" outside the White House.
And people like me all too quickly began to think about the foreign policy consequences, the threats we will now face, and the retaliation. Someone sent me a text asking if the War on Terror is over, and I responded with a "What do you fucking think?" as I deemed the question too moronic for civility. Someone else asked if "we are on the verge of World War III." I responded with "nope." Her response was unkind, as she asked what I had been drinking. Me: "World War III is an ideological construct, and the way we frame and interact with war is different than the post World War II era. Technically, World War III has already occurred." That seemed to quell the issue.
As for the issues of the moment . . . only time will tell. In the larger scheme of things, one day I'll tell the tale of doing laundry as the moment of what I did when Bin Laden's announcement was made. Much like, as these things go, when Saddam was captured I was shoveling my silver Escort from three plus feet of snow in Huntington Station, NY (as I lived there back then), I was teaching when the towers fell, and I was packing to go to Turkey when Saddam was hung. Okay, so the last one is somewhat romantic and exotic--giving me street creed--but the simple matter resides. Life can not halt, nor does it, for these moments and ideological constructions. Wounds are still raw, with the healing scabs angrily pulled off with terror alerts, anniversaries, and the death of a "leader." The days ahead will be filled with wonder, awe, fear, and stagnation. Until we know what the next phase is, or what we should do to counter the threat, all we can do is live like we normally do. Perhaps I could do with less sightings of the exs in traffic, bad dates, piss ant students who stink of entitlement, and Sunday nights of laundry but these are the makings of a life. The larger moments of history are the spurts along the way, which provide us markers to judge our growth, death, and eventual development.
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