Telling Stories

When I stopped teaching in 2005 (you can read about that here), my students were awesome about it. They were upset -- it's hard to make that kind of change in the middle of the school year -- but they were really cool.

One of them was a boy I called JimBob.

Why I called him JimBob, I honestly couldn't tell you. Sometimes nicknames are just like that. He sat down in my classroom and my brain said, "That guy shall be known as JimBob from now until eternity, amen," and that's how it was.

JimBob did not mind. He also appointed himself my secretary -- so if, say, the phone in my classroom rang in the middle of his class (it wasn't supposed to, but it did with some regularity) he would answer it. "Ms Balentine's room," he'd say, smoothly. "What is the nature of your call?"

It made me laugh every time.

When I tell you that my students were cool about the fact that I was going? They were. But this is how cool JimBob was: he went home and talked to his parents about why I was going, and how he thought it wasn't okay. He knew that it was one thing for me to have my students with me, but it would be something else entirely for me to have the support of their parents.

Which is how I came to be having a conversation with JimBob's mom about speaking out about what happened. I eventually chose not to do anything at that time (which shames me) but the fact that this young man and his mom wanted to make sure that I had a voice and that I knew if I wanted to go out swinging (so to speak) they would stand with me?

It was one of those moments that you look back at and cherish.

***

I got called on the carpet once because of JimBob's class. That group met at the end of the day and I would frequently lead off with a story about something in my life -- it could have been something that happened that day, or something that happened when I was in high school, or whatever -- and I think it was everyone's favorite part of our routine, except that my dean received word that I was telling stories (in an ENGLISH CLASS. SHOCKING) and not, say, devoting every second of our 90 minutes together to Shakespeare or some such.

He called me to his office."No more stories," I was instructed.

"No more stories," I dutifully reported to the class.

There were protests, but JimBob looked thoughtful. "Maybe," he said, "you should write them down."

That was when I started to blog.

***

On my last say of teaching, my students gave me a book that they had made for me. JimBob wrote this:

"Ms Balentine: You're the best! I had lots of fun in your favorite class and being your secretary. Good luck -- I'll miss you tons! -- JimBob"

Yes, he actually signed it "JimBob".

When I read through the book, I said, "JimBob. You know you're going to be in a story at some point, right?"

"Make sure everyone knows I'm awesome," he said, and he laughed.

***

JimBob passed away over the weekend.

He was 23.

The story of his death, like the story of most of his life, belongs to his family and the people who loved him.

But the story of the time that I knew him, and the impact he had on me, is mine to tell, and that story reminds me that you can make a difference in someone's life even if you only know them for a short time.

I knew JimBob for seven months. But if you asked me, of all of the time I spent teaching, who and what stands out? One of the stories I would tell would be of JimBob, talking to his mom, trying to make sure that something he thought was wrong was made right.

And reminding me that there are all kinds of ways to tell stories.

***

Rest in peace, JimBob. Sleep well, sir. You are still awesome.

Sorry Not Sorry (warning: This may contain triggers)

I am ... incensed.

Let's talk about coverage of the Steubenville conviction for a moment, shall we? (You knew this was coming, right?)

In my other life, the one that's not online, I sometimes talk about rape culture and I usually get the following responses:

1) You're too sensitive.

2) Are we talking about this AGAIN?

I don't think I'm too sensitive, and yes, I'm going to keep talking about it, because I think that the Steubenville conviction and the media response to it shows us all that rape culture is alive and thriving here in the US of A.

So. Steubenville. Two boys were convicted of rape, and upon announcement of their conviction and sentencing, they cried and said they were sorry, at which point multiple media outlets proclaimed how tragic this conviction is.

Now, I suspect that the boys in question are sorry because they got CONVICTED, and not because THEY'RE RAPISTS, but it's possible that I'm wrong. (I'm not wrong.)

And the media lamented the fact that the future of these two young men would be tainted by this conviction and bemoaned the fact that they are now registered sex offenders and, you know, "that's going to follow them all of their lives."

What. The Actual. Fuck.

The media, however, didn't seem sorry that the boys had COMMITTED A RAPE. That wasn't the sad part of the story. The sad part of the story was that Joe King of the Prom got busted raping and photographing and trashing the reputation of his victim, that Mr Stereotypical High School Jock and All Around Awesome Dude was CONVICTED of raping a girl... but apparently, the sad part of the story, the part that was worth lamentation, was not the rape. Very few, if any, of the reporters who spoke on the trial seemed to regret the fact that a young woman was raped and victimized and will carry this with her every day for the rest of her life in a way that is more scarring and brutal than being a registered sex offender will ever be for the sex offenders.

Maybe this makes sense in a disgusting, "rape culture means every woman is asking for it" way. I mean, she was drunk, right? So her inability to give consent when she was grossly violated by her classmates probably means she was asking for it.

So when a reporter says "The lives of these boys, with their promising futures, have been ruined by this conviction" s/he is basically saying: "If that bitch had kept her mouth shut, this all could have gone away and we all could have gone on as though nothing happened lalalalalala."

Or "If that slut hadn't passed out at a party, they wouldn't have had to RAPE her, and then we could all have gone on as though nothing happened lalalalala."

When the reporters should be saying: "Hey, guess what? DON'T RAPE."

So I'm talking about this again. And here's what I'd like to say: There is never, ever, EVER a reason to sexually assault or violate another person.

EVER.

And the problem isn't that a person is in a situation where she (or he) "could be" assaulted. The problem is that on some level our culture thinks that it's okay to assault people. The problem is that we get wrapped up in victim shaming and removal of responsibility so that the person who is raped bears the burden of being responsible for the fact that s/he was raped, and the person who is doing the raping? Becomes a victim.

It's not okay.

If the boys in Steubenville were such great guys? They wouldn't have raped their classmate.

If someone doesn't want to have her or his life ruined because they've been convicted of rape? THEY SHOULD NOT RAPE SOMEONE.

And when rape is committed? We need to stop asking what the victim did to deserve it or how s/he was complicit in the assault.

When all of that happens? Maybe then I can stop talking about rape culture.

Still Fighting It

We lost some good ones over the last week and the weekend. I wanted to have something to say about it, but I don't.

It's too sad.

Instead, I will let the below speak for me:

Making a Fist

By Naomi Shihab Nye 

We forget that we are all dead men conversing with dead men.

—

Jorge Luis Borges

For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,

I felt the life sliding out of me,

a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.

I was seven, I lay in the car

watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.

My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.

“How do you know if you are going to die?”

I begged my mother.

We had been traveling for days.

With strange confidence she answered,

“When you can no longer make a fist.”

Years later I smile to think of that journey,

the borders we must cross separately,

stamped with our unanswerable woes.

I who did not die, who am still living,

still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,

clenching and opening one small hand.

 

 

 

 

(or you can view it here )

Friday Randoms

I

"So what did you do today?"

"Drank 3 bottles of ginger ale. Thought about getting dressed. Didn't. Took a nap. Thought about showering. Didn't. Went to the grocery store in my jammies."

"Huh."

"Saw the cute guy while I was there. He gave me the reverse 'How YOU doin'?' nod? Like a reflex? And then looked horrified when he really got a look at me. How was I doing? I had jammies, crazy hair, and a cart full of kleenex and ginger ale."

"Sexxxxxxxxy."

"Who doesn't want to get with the girl in sock monkey pants? I mean, what's hotter than THAT?"

II

"I want to sing the 'I'm a GENIUS' song."

"You have a song for that."

"Yep. It goes: 'Whoooooo's a geeeenius? WAIT! That's ME!' and then there are jazz hands."

"It's the jazz hands that make it."

"They make EVERYTHING better. 'Cause they're JAZZY."

III

"How much coffee have you had today?"

"I dunno. Four cups? Five? Why do you ask?"

"Your HAIR is vibrating."

"It's EXCITED."

"About what?"

"Um. Life?"

IV

"Oooh, look at this eye shadow! I love this stuff. It's the BEST. I used to buy this all of the time. But in, you know, whacked out colours like ... gold. Pink. Red."

"That's ... so surprising."

"What?"

"You? being or doing something whacked out? I can't even IMAGINE."

"I know, right? ... Wait a minute. My sarcasm dinger just dinged."

V

"All of your clothes are black."

"I know. EVERYTHING MATCHES. It's the best."

"Sure. If you don't mind being called Morticia."

"Morticia Addams was a babe. And super happy."

"So you're saying you aspire to be a member of the Addams family?"

"... I'm not saying I DON'T aspire to that ..."

Getting Over It

I've been sick this week. Here's what I had forgotten about strep throat -- it will knock you OUT. I mean, it sounds fairly weak and innocent, unlike, say, pneumonia, which sounds dire (and which I've had more than 10 times in my life? I kid you not) but ... oh man. I have been struggling to resemble a functional human being.  (And by "functional" I really kind of mean "having the ability to sit upright and/or go to the store for the 100th time for gingerale and kleenex" which is, really, not super functional but you get the point, I'm sure.)

However, I'm getting better. I knew for sure this morning that I was getting better because I glanced in the mirror and saw a face that has some colour in it rather than the pasty/transparent complexion I've been sporting (vampire chic? Not even) and thought "I don't look so much like hell. I look like ... erm, heck."

(You know, hell's friendlier neighbor. )

Anyway.

I sat down with (yet another) glass of ginger ale and thought, I look a little better. I feel a little better. Baby steps. I'm getting over it.

Which is really how we get over everything, isn't it? We all want an instantaneous cure, as though the Genie in Alladin can show up and grant us recovery like a wish -- poof, you're all better! Poof, you're recovered! Poof, you're over it! -- but it doesn't happen like that. It doesn't happen like that with illnesses (says the woman who is still looking at seven days of antibiotics) and it doesn't happen like that with anything else, either.

But we want it to.

And -- perhaps more importantly, we act like it should.

Maybe not so much with illnesses. We seem to be tolerant of people who are recovering from germs, surgery, conditions, because we've all been sick and know that it takes more than a day of medicine or whatnot to get better.

But with other things. Things that are just as impactful to us as physical illnesses in the "knock you on your ass" way. Like grief, and loss, and separation.

I have too many friends who are working through these things and beating themselves up, daily, because they're not "over it" as though there is a timetable for moving past and through what's hurt or damaged them. As though that taking the time to heal is a bad thing for which they should be ashamed. As though not immediately jumping back into the fray makes them weak.

This is ridiculous. Ridiculous and, I think, potentially harmful.  I think of it this way: if you have a broken arm, and it's not healed yet? You might want to wait for that cast to come off before you sign up for a boxing match. So if your spirit and heart are wounded and in need of some healing? You might -- just maybe -- want to make sure you're shored up and ready to go before you toss them back into the ring.

Which doesn't happen overnight.

Which sometimes doesn't happen over several overnights.

But which DOES happen, and it happens the way getting over strep throat or pneumonia or anything else happens -- a bit at a time. Slowly. One day you'll look in a mirror and see a face that you recognize as more your own and you'll realize you feel a bit better than you did yesterday, and you'll have hope that you'll feel better yet tomorrow.

And you'll know that you're getting over it.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat (and no, this is NOT about my hair)

... that's potentially the title of my non-fiction self help novel.

(The only problem with that plan is ... I'm not qualified to write a self-help novel? OH WELL. In the words of Dr Phil "Who the hell cares about qualifications?"*)

Anyway, here's WHY that would be the title of my self-help novel: because those are the world's easiest to follow instructions. I mean, think about it. When was the last time you tried to repeat BEFORE you lathered or rinsed?

Never, that's when.

And even if you mess up steps one and two (rinse, then lather) -- you are fine once you hit the repeat step. It cancels out the mistakes in one and two.

SO EASY.

I think people need suggestions for their lives that are as easy peasy as "Lather, Rinse, Repeat" and as hard to screw up. Not like The Secret, which suggests that you can totally screw yourself by sending the wrong vibes to the universe (dude, I do not need to read a book that tells me that if I am concerned about getting cancer that I can GIVE MYSELF CANCER -- wtf?) but -- easier than that.

Easy like lathering, rinsing, and repeating. Order optional. Except, again, you have to repeat last but EVERYONE KNOWS THAT.

"Okay, hotshot," I can imagine you saying, "what kind of things would you be telling people in this book that you are in no way qualified to write?"

Well.

Here are my simple instructions for life in a complicated world (order optional):

Seek. Work. Laugh. Learn. Love. Repeat.

(The "repeat" is just there so that you remember not to stop doing any of the other things.)

In case you think this post is a joke ("She's not seriously writing a self-help book, I mean, she's kind of a mess") -- it's ... not. This is hardly the weirdest thing I've ever done, y'all.

But just remember -- when in doubt:

Seek
Work
Laugh
Learn
Love
Repeat

I should get that printed on a t-shirt.




*I don't think he actually said that? I think someone I know said it ABOUT him. Whatevs.

Well: It's a Deep Subject

I was half asleep on the couch yesterday when it suddenly occured to me:

I've been here before.

I had LITERALLY been there before, obviously (it's my couch, after all, and it's not like this is the first time I've napped on it), but I had also been there before in that: this is not the first time I've been sick and totally exhausted.

"This stinks," I croaked out. The cat chirped in agreement and put a paw on my head.

Why do I always get SUPER sick? I wondered. How come I never get, like, the sniffles?

And then I realized:

This? Is my fault.

I mean, I can't control my exposure to germs, obviously, but the fact that my immune system is shot is kind of my fault because (and here's my confession):

I don't take very good care of myself. I eat very randomly, and it's not always the most nutritious things. I don't get enough sleep. I carry ridiculous stress and work a grillion hours a day (true story: I now DREAM about work, which is not how you want to spend your dreaming hours). I have been trying to find the time to exercise (and actually exercising) but if you're going to exercise? You need the nutrients and sleep to support that in order for it to work properly.

And then I'm surprised when I fall off the hamster wheel in a hacking, sneezing, feverish heap.

But probably no one else is.

I realized, between glasses of ginger ale and intermittent naps (and responding to work emails): I need to think about what it means to be well. How to live really well, emotionally AND physically. Because this whole thing where I need a round of antibiotics and steroids and whatever else in order to function once I run myself into the ground?

It's ridiculous.

None of this is to say that I won't continue to get sick now and again. I'm pretty sure that's going to happen. But -- and I'm no doctor, but I feel pretty confident about this -- if you start out with a baseline of being well, of taking care of yourself and making sure you have what you need to be healthy and happy?

You might not get sick quite as often.

I guess I'm going to find out.