Relatively Drug-Free

Pardon my lack of posts, but I've been sick for over a week now. I like to exaggerate and say I have SARS or TB or bird flu, but in reality it's probably just a cold. I have a pretty healthy immune system though (I credit my various lengthy childhood illnesses to building up my antibodies early in life), so unless I cannot breathe, see, or stand, I generally avoid taking any medication, even over-the-counter. I prefer to just ride out the storm without side effects.

In addition, I basically ignore my illnesses except to whine a little and go on with life. Therefore, it was my pleasure to attend a bachelorette party this weekend for one of my oldest friends. It was a pretty laid-back affair: dinner out, then games, gifts, and drinks at a hotel, with ensuing slumber party. I took this opportunity to consume vast quantities of Absolut- without really noticing just how much until I realized I was the only one responsible for emptying half a bottle. One would think this would have made me feel worse, given my raspy, hacking condition, but I actually woke up feeling far better than I had the morning before. I've come to the conclusion that I actually managed to disinfect my blood. (There is, of course, no scientific support for this statement.)

Ironically, my friend (who was also sick) pointed out to me last week that the reason I was sick in the first place was because we had gone out too much the previous weekend and got little to no sleep (mostly due to another round of drinks involving vanilla Stoli), which compromised our immune systems. Apparently the vodka giveth and the vodka taketh away...

Did you see...

How many times a day do you hear these words? It seems like at work, at home, and even with random strangers, the conversation revolves around the ole boob tube. But chances are, if you ask me if I've seen the new House, or that Sanjaya finally got kicked to the curb, or that really funny commercial, my answer will be no. I've pretty much given up watching TV.

That's right, it's true. I'm a twenty-five-year-old modern American that doesn't watch TV anymore. Okay, let me clarify I bit. I will sometimes throw on the Food Network or HGTV for a couple of hours, but usually it's during my after-school nap or while I'm cleaning house on the weekend. And I will watch my one guilty pleasure, I Love New York (and now Charm School), at my friend's house when she tivo's it. But that puts my TV viewing hours at roughly five or six a week, and I think I heard a statistic that in the average home, the TV is on for at least five to six hours a day. For example, at my parents' house, it's pretty much always on if someone is home, even if it's only serving as background noise, and I wonder if this is true for most other American homes.

So why have I done this? Is it political? Religious? Intellectual? Maybe. But basically, I just stopped watching sometime in January and realized that I don't miss it. There isn't much on that's so compelling that I'd rather be doing that than something else. I've never been one to plan my schedule around TVGuide, but even my die-hard favorites have lost some of their appeal. I simply just don't need it anymore.

When I tell friends about my new, TV-free lifestyle, they often react as if I'd had my electricity shut off- a small gasp, followed by "but what do you do?" Well, I may live in Elkhart county, but I'm not Amish. I still watch a lot of movies (which is a lot of what I watched on TV even before), but with Netflix, I get to choose which ones instead of the almighty network producers. I also have a pretty healthy internet addiction, which is where I get a majority of my news, weather, and said Netflix. I read books and magazines, write, listen to the radio, putter around my apartment, go for a walk, or spend time with friends. Sometimes I'll even drag out the old X-Box for a couple of rounds of Mortal Kombat (not exactly the most enlightening pasttime).

Maybe it's the control-freak in me, but I've just found that I would rather do something more interactive than being bombarded with advertisements for stuff I don't need, reality shows that have nothing to do with reality, celebrity antics that make me embarrassed for my generation (or similarly, paparazzi-produced segments that contort the First Amendment to basically eliminate all lines of privacy or human dignity), and dramatic or comedic elements that I can just as easily get from a good movie.

And, I figure, if it's really worth watching or I can't take it any longer, I can always rent the complete seasons and have myself a good old-fashioned TV marathon. But it hasn't happened yet.

Virginia Tech Massacre: an educator's view

I have avoided writing since I got news of the Virginia Tech tragedy because I simply don't know how to react. I have probably seemed somewhat callous to others, but I think the reality of it is just too horrible and frightening for me to properly acknowledge. My sense of loss for that community, although I did not know them personally, is great and I cannot- or choose not to- imagine the pain that will permeate that campus for a long time to come.

However, and this does not at all diminish my sorrow for the victims, I cannot help but also be acutely stricken by the pain of the shooter. I suspected from the moment I heard of the news that the man would eventually reveal his motivation as those same feelings of isolation and rejection that are most often associated with the Columbine tragedy, but are doubtless shared with others who have struck out violently against society. While I obviously do not condone any such action in any way, I grieve also for a person whose pain was so severe that he felt the need to inflict the same on others in such an extreme way. How can one person feel so enraged? So alone that this reaction is the only option, and in his mind, the correct solution?

As a teacher, especially in a more urban setting, I am often asked if I am afraid of violence in schools. I can honestly say that I am not really afraid of fights, or guns, or knives, or bombs. This is what I fear most: that as an educator, I have not done enough. That I have not shown every single one of my students that I care about them as a whole person, not letter grades or percentages. That I have not made it clear that they matter to me because there is something inside of them that is worth caring about. That I have not taught them that there is a place for everyone.

That they know they are not alone.

I love Indiana in the Springtime... okay, maybe not

All right, go ahead and blame me for this craptacular spring weather. I'm aware that I jinxed us all with that March 27th post. I guess that just because where I come from this is the South (hey, everything's relative), doesn't actually make it so. I left for spring break wearing flip-flops, capris, and a tank top and returned in a winter coat. Not cool.

Actually, besides making me lazy and grumpy from seasonal affective disorder, I wouldn't have minded so much except that in my enthousiasm for summer I left my potted plants outside. Big mistake. My gerber daisies that had just bloomed for the third time are now completely done for, and the hydrangea bush (which I babied back to health all winter after leaving it out too long last fall) resembles microwaved lettuce strung on a branch. I nearly cried, half-hoping that some miracle had saved it from the frost, sleet, and snow while I was away. Ironically, only my pansies have toughed out the weather (get it, they're pansies... I know, bad pun). Good thing I didn't get the flowers I'd wanted back in that week of 80 degree weather, after all.

Hopefully Memorial Day weekend will be more pleasant outside than Easter.

Back from Break

As a teacher, I get the perk of a spring break every year. Unfortunately, this year wasn't quite the break I'd hoped for, as I spent most of it in northern Michigan at my grandmother's house waiting for my uncle's funeral, who died last Friday after prolonged complications from Agent Orange exposure.

I don't know how all families deal with such times, but my family's mourning process never changes: we gather to cook and eat, laugh and cry, hug and talk away the awful hours and days between death and final farewell. Last week was no different as my father cooked ham, turkey, and chickens, my mother made a different cake every day, and my aunt and cousins made various salads and side dishes in my grandmother's kitchen. While different concoctions are constantly boiling and baking, and between the nearly as constant feedings, we drag out the
photo albums from beneath beds, above closets, and buried deep within forgotten trunks.

For three days we sorted out the photos we thought best depicted my uncle: with his children, his brother and sister, his parents, his hunting buddies, the various nieces and nephews, grandchild, and great-nephews and great-great-nephew. We copied them, cropped them, arranged them artfully on boards, my grandmother, my aunt, and I. We conferred with the family- which ones were the most handsome, the most memorable, and often, the most silly.

And, of course, we told stories. The ones we all know, but will never get tired of. Like the time right after he came home from the war and was living with my aunt and her husband and came home drunk in the middle of the night. He was sick in the bathroom and started making a huge ruckus, screaming and hollering. When they rushed in to make sure he was all right, thinking he was injured, they realized the toilet lid had fallen on his head and he was screaming, "the alligator's got me, the alligator's got me!"

Or the time back in '88 when the whole family went up to the UP fishing, but his second wife wouldn't let him go, so he took off the next day while she was in the shower. When he came home, all of his clothes were on the lawn, but he always said it was worth it to spend that long weekend with his family.

Or how he was the best shot anyone ever knew, which is possibly the greatest possible compliment from a bunch of guys who grew up in northern Michigan of all places, and are always in one season or another. I heard a lot of stories of his fishing and hunting exploits last week, usually ending up with the biggest fish, or the hardest shot ending with the biggest buck.

But it wasn't all happy times, and we remembered all of my uncle. For example, how liquor made him fight anyone, often dragging his little brother (my dad) into a losing battle or getting them thrown out of a place. Or his being incredibly accident-prone, so much so we put some band-aids in his pocket for the next life. We knew him and loved him- all of him.

So, as I've said, I don't know how all families mourn, but I know how mine does, and I don't think there's a better way than to laugh through the tears. It's somehow comforting to know that when it's my time, they will do the same for me, and I will always be loved and remembered for exactly who I am.