Teaching Confessions

I hate teaching, and this year I’m celebrating a quarter century of not doing it. It’s time to come clean.

Women in my family (like women in so many families around the world) have made our living as teachers for three generations. That’s as long as women in my family have been making a living at anything outside the home. My grandmother, Margaret, taught primary school in Nebraska. Lucky for me, she married the superintendent of schools and left to have babies. All three of Margaret’s daughters became teachers. After her children went to school, my mom enjoyed a short, passionate career teaching PE in our rural high school. Her older sister taught English in a community college, and her younger sister taught sixth grade in a neighborhood school. Half of my female cousins are teachers. 

Fulfilling a promise to a beloved teacher I became a social work professor. With my PhD starched and pressed I entered the classroom at the ripe age of 30. The mean age of my students was 35. So I worked my tail off trying to get ahead of them, and by the end of the first month the dean who hired me got a petition demanding that she fire me. That’s when I realized that I hated teaching. Those ingrates! What did they know? Lucky for me, this dean wasn’t swayed by student opinion.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was part of a vanguard of non-Mormon women hired to teach (mostly) Mormon women how to be social workers. They didn’t like us, and we didn’t like them. They found us arrogant and we thought them backward. They were used to taking shit from men, and didn’t see what right we had to dish it out. We had taken a good deal of the same shit, and felt it was our turn to dish it out. Besides, we stood in the way of their getting a piece of paper that would license them as official doers of good.  I learned to be extra nice and tone down my inner cynic in order to survive.

Survive I did. Some might say I flourished. I’ve won teaching awards and I’ve written textbooks.  But I still can’t sleep before the first day of class. The Associate Dean who saw me through those tough first years once told me she threw up every year before her first class.

The night before my first class I face once again the sure knowledge that I’m doomed.  For all that book learning, I don’t have the answers my students are seeking. (Now that I’m older, I sometimes claim that I did have them, but have forgotten.) So on the day of, I stride into the classroom with a pile of books and reams of notes, grinning bravely in the faces of the students I will disappoint. They’re paying my salary with money that didn’t come easy. They’ve left their families and/or their jobs to spend time with me. And I will not give them answers. I don’t even have sure facts for them to memorize! What kind of rip off is that? The only reason they don’t want to fire me now is I’m less irritating than I used to be. 

That, and while I do hate teaching, the only thing I love more than learning is my students. They get better every year – brighter, younger, prettier. I’m never quite done at the end of class. (I’ve learned to appoint a timekeeper to tell me when it’s time to go.) And the end of term always comes way too soon.  I’m so glad when they come back for more!

Soon, I’ll revise this term’s syllabus. I’ll satisfy the demands of accreditation and university authorities. I’ll slip in new readings and some nifty jargon. I’ll spell out expectations and accommodations. I’ll create a plan that will inevitably fall apart. Then I’ll script that first day. All in hope of creating a sacred space where I can watch my students learn. And some day, I’ll admit to the world that I don’t teach. Never have. I just show up and hope there’s no vomit on my shoes.

 

More on Iowa

I dreamed of studying at the Writers Workshop for years. The dream seemed to feed on my dissatisfaction.  The academic prose I’ve spent so much of my life on seemed dry and lifeless. I’ve longed to be “creative,” even “literary.” But questioned whether I had it in me. Besides that, life's demands always said, "No." Finally, this summer I found myself in the states for an extended period with a gap in the schedule that looked perfect for a writing class.

I looked around. Tin House, an edgy lit mag I read from cover to cover, offered workshops in Portland, Writers at Work were doing something in Salt Lake. But these seemed more focused on the business of publishing than the craft of writing. Iowa's Summer Writing Festival promised to emphasize craft. That, and the chance to be within sniffing distance of the Writers Workshop was enough to get me there.

I flew to Cedar Rapids and drove 20 minutes through rolling fields to Iowa City which, at first glance, didn't look like much. My hotel was on the outskirts with large people zooming by in large cars. The humidity was a shock. It seemed no one walked anywhere!

The first night’s event came under a bland heading, “Orientation.” Remembering the importance of first impressions and more than a little nervous, I changed clothes a few times before navigating the car to the hotel. The woman on the phone said I could park in the “ramp.” That seemed odd, so I took a pass and eased the rental into a spot on the street. Sunday night, this would be the last time I’d skip the “parking ramp,” as they call garages. Of course, I was early. Shops were closed, but I meandered along window-shopping and avoiding that awkward moment when I’d have to give my name and smile for the strangers. But – and I think this was key to why I had such a great time – the moment wasn’t awkward. No one rushed me or patronized me or even seemed to be judging me. I just slipped right in to a bunch of 20 or so other writers, equally early, and equally soothed by something magic in the atmosphere. I can’t explain, and can barely describe it. I think it came from the focus on the work and what our lovely administrator called “a democratic outlook.” We were all there to work – not to posture. We checked our insecurities and egos at the door. Eventually more than a hundred gathered at round tables to eat surprisingly good chicken and listen to instructions that most of us would forget.

Our days quickly took on a predictable rhythm: get up and write – eat - go to campus and write – rush to 11:00 lecture – eat - go to class– eat - go to a reading at Prairie Lights – drink - eat - write a little more if you’re so inclined - go to bed. Some of the magic was in that rhythm. And some was in the comradery. Each of us found a place on campus where we could sit with laptop or notebook and write. You’d see people hunkered over their work on a bench in the mall, or tapping away at a coffeshop, or walking along composing out loud (quietly, but still…). I lost myself in the tasks my teacher set me to. Her voice got into my head reminding me to be concrete, be specific… I stretched and tried and failed and sometimes got close to succeeding.

Class time was three hours in the afternoon. They went by fast! Sometimes our teacher (Carol Spindel) told us things. But mostly we read our work to each other – a process that terrified me at first. But the instant feedback was a great learning tool. We tuned into each other so that as we read we noticed an intake of breath or a muffled laugh or the quality of silence that said, “Yeah, that worked.” I dreaded the other silence that I interpreted as, “You bombed,” but Carol  turned into, “Needs more work” or “good first draft.”

Lectures were called “elevenses,” and they were optional. Some were amusing “Scintillating hints for writers,” included tips on taxes. Eric Goodman spoke of “Transforming Life into Art.” Tim Bascom offered visual images of various structures of non-fiction. I went to every one and surprised myself by asking questions without worrying over whether they were “appropriate” or “on topic.” They demystified this process of creation – deconstructed it, even. It wasn’t about “talent” that you either have or you don’t. It was about work that we were all doing.

So now I’m away.  I’ve developed the morning writing habit and am revising the fourth edition of my textbook. Carol gave me permission (now I’m not sure why I needed it) to look on this as creative writing. It is, almost.

At our good-bye dinner by the river one of my classmates said, “I came with a dream and I’m leaving with a plan.”  I feel a bit different. I did come with a dream, but it was really more a projection of my insecurities and dissatisfactions. I came away feeling less insecure and more satisfied with my own writing. I have the structure and vocabulary to describe what I’ve been grappling with all these years, and the creative work I’ve longed to do seems almost within reach.

 

 

I Want a Mohawk

Mary’s Beauty Shop had a door with little bells that tinkled when you walked in. It smelled of perfume and bleach. Wiping her hands on a towel, a big lady with big hair and high heels greeted us. The ones toasting under hair dryers took peeks at my daddy. All of a sudden he didn’t look quite so sure about this. But I was sure. I’d just finished first grade and knew what I wanted. I wanted a Mohawk.

Daddy gave a feeble smile to the big-haired lady, “We have an appointment. We’re a little early…”

“Let me see…Mister uh Smith, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Mary. And what are we doing today?”

Four grown up eyes turned towards me and all of a sudden I wasn’t so sure about this. Late June, every year my grandpa put a high chair out on the lawn and oiled up his clippers to give the boys their Mohawks. They ran wild in the hills all summer, bringing home bugs and lizards, bruises and scrapes, and tales, lots of tall tales. Yeah, I wanted a Mohawk.

“Cat got your tongue? Well, let’s just see what we have here. Climb up, sweetheart.” She spun me around to face her wall mirror and started fingering the rat’s nest at the nape of my neck. “Well, I’ll need comb this out…” She looked at daddy, “Don’t you have errands to run?” I gasped, but daddy didn’t let me down, “No…no, I’ll stay here.” He picked up a fashion magazine and pretended interest while she started pulling apart the nest with her fingers. I tolerated this for a while. “Use your words” had not yet replaced the maxim of our household, “children are to be seen but not heard.” Still, I had to ask, “Could you just cut it out?”

“Oh honey!” She gushed, “that would leave a big hole in your pretty hair.”

She pulled out the dreaded comb and started tugging. I leaked a few tears and daddy erupted, “Oh for crying out loud! Just cut the thing off.”

“Well, sir, I can’t just cut it off. But I can give her a nice pixie cut if you’ll give me some time.”

We had all the time in the world. Mommy was sick in bed and the boys were at baseball practice. Daddy turned to me,

“What say, Loo Loo, how about a nice pixie cut?”

I didn’t even look at him.

“Yes, sweetie, you just wait here and we’ll get your daddy a cup of coffee and…”

“Wait, ma’ am, my little girl just wants her hair short for the summer. It’s going to be hot and all. Don’t you have clippers somewhere around here?”

He was out of his depth trying to tell her about hair equipment.

“Sir, I can’t use clippers it’ll leave her hair way too short. Just give me 30 minutes and I’ll have these tangles gone.”

Tangles. She'll get him confused.

But Daddy stood firm and came right out with it. “Look, my little girl wants a Mohawk.

“A what?”

“ A Mohawk. You know – buzz the sides and leave a band at the top. You DO know how to do a Mohawk. Don’t you?”

He had her.

“Of course, I know how to do a Mohawk Mr. Smith…Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah.”

There would be hell to pay when Mommy saw it, and the aunts would whisper all summer about how awful it was. But I didn’t care. With that “yeah” he set me up for the best summer ever. The boys and I would nearly burn down the hay barn; I would get my first stitches; and I would come this close to a rattlesnake!  But I didn’t tell them about that.

Going Home

Larry says I came back from Iowa with a twang. Saturday morning, no need to rush, so I’ve made him read my favorite essay, “You have too many prepositions here!” “What’s this ‘oiled up’ Why don’t you just say 'oiled?' And do you really need ‘out on the lawn?’ Just say ‘on the lawn.’ It sounds more like you.” I know this is my husband being helpful, but part of me likes the twang. Is it me? I’m not sure. Maybe I am just copying my classmates.   Still, I argue back: “I grew up in the country. Lots of rural people have twangs. My dad does.” So what happened to my twang? Did I get rid of it to fit in at that fancy college? Academia is no place for twang.

~

Last year I was invited to a dinner for university professors in Dunedin. I drove down to the restaurant, arriving early in my anxiety about getting lost.  I tried chatting up the staff, “Big do tonight, eh?” The bus boy wasn’t having any. He put me in my place with a crisp, “Yes, ma’am.” and bustled away. Next stop: the women’s room, where I passed time messing with face and hair until filtered voices signaled the arrival of more guests.  

After a few encounters I settled at a circular table with eight other professors. No twangs here. An American import spoke with a vaguely French accent about her work in postmodernism. Everyone else used lilting kiwi tones. “At least there are two other women.” I reassured myself, glancing at other tables with even fewer. After a little too much wine, my companions began to reminisce about childhood. Theirs was the childhood I should have had –visitors from abroad gracing the dinner table, evenings reading with father by the fire, favorite books and musicians, high expectations with everyone watching.

I listened, absorbed, until a pause in the action. New Zealand is a culture of inclusion, so one kind soul was uncomfortable with my silence. “What about you, Amanda? What was it like growing up in…California?” Now I can think of the clever things I could have said, but then I blurted out, “My father hauled fertilizer. So it was …pungent.” Strictly speaking, this was true. “Hauling fert” wasn’t the only thing he did for a living, but it was the most pungent. Conversation swirled around me until I left early. I had given my colleagues something to talk about in less public venues. Maybe they would say, “That explains it!” Maybe they would say, “Who would have known?”  Maybe they could care less what my father did.

~

My dad loves to chat on the phone, and Alzheimer’s has not diminished his fascination with place. Name any coastal city and he’ll dredge up an impression from his merchant marine days. Seattle: “Man that place is dark and the rain is much colder than you’d expect.” New York: “Pretty girls, but way too many people.” His loyalty to California never wavers. “60 degrees and sunny!” he’ll chortle, knowing full well that it’s snowing on me in Salt Lake. He may not be sure what city he’s in, but he never forgets that he settled in California.

I stumped him today, “I spent last week in Iowa City.”  “Iowa City! I don’t think I’ve ever been there. How was the weather?” When I told him about tornado warnings and canceled planes, he channeled Brigham Young “I guess it’s not the place!” My dad is not Mormon, and has never visited the “This is the Place” monument, where Parley’s Canyon opens into the Great Salt Lake Valley. Rumor has it that after his long trek across the plains, Young gazed at the valley and declared, “This is the place.” Now this valley is the place for over a million people, less than half of us members of his church. When he was young my dad searched long and hard before he returned home to the state he was born in and declared of California, “This is the Place.”

~

This March in Dunedin I invited doctoral students working in narrative to join me for lunch in the staff club on Thursdays. Eager to impress, a young man from Ghana had looked up my resume. “My goodness! You have been publishing for such a long time! You started so young! Your parents must have been academics!”  This set me back. Why did I feel insulted? “Oh, no.” I corrected him, “My father was a farmer!” He didn’t believe me, and tried to draw in the other students to persuade me that  my parents must have been academics. “Maybe they should have been academics, but I assure you they were not.” It was a strange lunch.

~

So here’s what I brought home from the Iowa Writer’s Festival:

• Creative non-fiction is about what you leave out;
• Keep track of your ideas because you never know when the well will run dry;
• Write first thing in the morning;
• Revise, revise, revise; and
• Narrative structures make cool pictures.

This past week I’ve been writing first thing in the morning – mostly cutting the crap out of my textbook. (Chapter 3 is 1,000 words shorter!) Carol’s voice in my head says, “That’s a cliché. Do you really want to use someone else’s words?” or “Can you be a little more specific here?” I narrate my life: “She stepped into the shower.” No,  “She jumped into the shower.”  No, “She eased into the shower.” No.

 

From a Grave Stone in Pompei

"Julia Saturnina. 45 years. Wonderful wife. Excellent physician. Most blameless woman. May the earth rest lightly upon her."

Love as Quest

Ever hunting for first-person narratives about women's lives, I snatched up a 1998 autobiography by noted literary critic and mystery author, Carolyn Heilbrun, called The Last Gift of Time. The blurb was compelling. Carolyn, it said, had long planned to commit suicide when she reached 70 to avoid the vicissitudes of aging or "go out while on top." This book, the blurb implied, celebrated the fact that she didn't. Her sixties, it said, were so rewarding that she decided to stick around. The book offered an intriguing meditation on Carolyn's carefully-examined life. She bought a house in the country for her personal retreat. She cultivated new friendships. She read a lot and finally learned to "get along" with her husband of 40 years. I was with her until she got onto the topic of love.

In her earlier work, Writing a Woman's Life, Carolyn argued that women have historically been limited (in life and in literature) to romance narratives, which she described as "conventional." Only recently she suggested, have we been protagonists in "real" quest narratives. This is a compelling and widely-read work. 

Her autobiography shed light on the personal attitudes and experiences at the root of her argument. In this later work she expressed contempt for late-life romance, suggesting that women indulge in this sort of thing because they don't have access to more laudable pursuits - in short, they have nothing better to do!

Those marketing Gift of Time fail to point out that Carolyn did commit suicide. Five short years after its publication she took some pills, put a plastic bag over her head, and lay down in her bed, leaving a note "The journey was over. Love to all."

Somehow this takes the stuffing out of her well-crafted arguments and leaves many people wondering "Why?" Popular answers allude to eccentricity and fierce independence. Call me naive, but I think Carolyn missed the boat when it came to love.

Gift Horses and Rings

Six years ago your dad and I celebrated our 20^th anniversary. He decided to give me a ring, and he asked what I wanted it to look like. I described an elaborate design with rubies interspersed with diamonds – not symmetrical, not a repeating pattern, but various sizes and shapes serving as a metaphor for the years we had shared. Ah it was a beautiful thing. I could see it so clearly! He went away with a puzzled look. A small box was soon on display on our dining room table. I walked around chortling about good things coming in small boxes. The day came and I cooked a feast. Over dessert your dad insisted that it was time to open the box. I took forever – exclaiming over the paper,  unpeeling the ribbon, slowly lifting the lid and there was the ring. Solidly cushioned in its luxury box - a practical band, a symmetrical ring with an alternating pattern of rubies and diamonds that said, “Over and over the same damn thing!” And there was your dad with an eager apologetic look that said, “Sometimes you ask too much.” Isn’t “dissembling a polite word for faking it?”  Anyway, that’s what I did - a pathetic imitation of pleasure and surprise - enough to forestall disappointment. I wore it for a while, groaning inside whenever the little band caught my eye. Then one day I buried it in my underwear drawer – cushioned once again in its beautiful coffin. Five years and a lifetime later, tired of wearing my great aunt’s ring, I opened the box and looked. There was a practical little band with a bit of glimmer in alternating rubies and diamonds. Nice colors and a nice feel -- nothing even vaguely metaphoric. It wasn’t the fantasy I wanted. It was the one I got.  These days I grin when it catches my eye, a metaphor for two decades that brought two children to two parents who are learning to get along.

On Saying Good Bye

The night before my son left home I dreamed of weddings and babies. He joked about bringing home a beautiful Israeli daughter-in-law, so maybe that was why. But this dream had a deeper message. 

Nathaniel is one of the most intuitive people I know. So are his friends. I like his friends. Nathan complained that Bill, his best friend since junior high, gave a maudlin speech at his going away dinner. Reminded of my own maudlin speech on leaving Berkeley to join my future husband in Guam, I said once again, “I like Bill!” I’ve watched their friendship with its alternating phases of deep connection and burning hostility, secure in the knowledge that it’s a keeper. He’s like his dad that way. Larry still has every friend he ever made. But for a treasured few, mine seem to disappear.

I told Nathan, “This really is the end of an era.” He’ll spend five months on an Israeli kibbutz, learning organic farming and studying Torah, then he’ll enter a medical school hundreds, if not thousands of miles from this place where he was born – and this person who “born’ed” him. [My mother used to say that, “I’m glad I born’ed you.” And she used to pat me on the thigh at random moments.  I do that. Sometimes for comfort and sometimes for sheer perversity, I pat my children at random moments. They tolerate it well.]

For decades we were spared these dislocating transitions. We stayed put, built our careers and raised our children – living the American dream. No one died. No one even left for more than a few days!

But then was then, and the 21^st century opened with a dying time. First Larry’s mom, then mine, then his dad. Nathan left for Canada. I left for New Zealand. Ariana left for Iowa. We all came back, but “It’s never the same.” It never will be.

My children must never know how desperately I worry about them when they are away. The least hint of illness, unhappiness or misbehavior sends me into a paroxysm of anxiety. The knowledge that one of them is driving on a crowded highway can leave me breathless. While one is on an airplane I devote at least half of my psychic energy to holding that plane up – three-quarters, during landing and take off. Do they wonder why I ask them to call when they get there? 

In the dream I serenely nursed my baby and cheerfully planned my wedding. Close to life, really. I did nurse both babies – though not always serenely; and I did plan my wedding – though I recall more stress than cheer. But that’s the way dreams are. Maybe this time around I can nurture my babies and plan my weddings with serenity and cheer. “Make no mistake, children. You may imagine it’s your wedding, your children… but no. They belong to the one who born’ed you!” Maybe not. But weddings and babies will come. And children who leave will return. Like so many of my dreams, this one assures me that everything will be – must be – alright, in this best of all possible worlds. A message of acceptance and hope.

It also provides a clue to this new role of aging parent. My job, as I’m learning it, is to set aside raging insecurities and reassure others. “It will be alright.” “We can fix this.” “You’re OK.” So radiating a confidence I almost felt, I hugged my son, asked if he had his passport, and told him to take lots of pictures -- saving the tears for after he walked out the door.

 

What's in a Name?

My pilates teacher calls me "Angela." It took me a while to figure out she was talking to me and now it's too late to tell her my real name. Actually, I'm starting to like it. I think I'll change my name to Angela Chantalle and move to Toulouse and raise dairy goats with a border collie named Spike, my own lake, and three geese named Athos, Aramis and Porthos. There will be a vineyard nearby, cared for by a one-eyed man with a mysterious past. I'll name my lake Eustancia. I've always wanted a lake named Eustancia. I'll concoct delicate herb cheeses and sell them to Europe's finest restaurants and cultivate a reputation for eccentricity. Do drop in if you're in the neighborhood!

What didn't Happen

So there I sit, on the first of four flights that will bring me home from New Zealand, with a baby keening in the row behind. Fifteen minutes in, a vivid fantasy takes over and the plane is spinning towards earth while the mother screams, "Weeee!" like one does with children on roller coasters to persuade them that it's fun, rather than scary. The logic was clear: she wanted her child to die laughing. I just wanted some peace. The landing was surprisingly gentle.

My Demented Weekend

There I was last Friday, driving a rented car that handled like a marshmallow along a 6-lane California freeway. I was bleary eyed from getting up at 5:30, which was way too early for my 7:30 flight, but sheesh I was nervous. I was going to be completely in charge of my father's care for the first time ever - in my life, and since his diagnosis with Alzheimer's a little over a year before.

I couldn't find a radio station I liked and couldn't figure out how I was going to get that huge rental up his tiny mountain road. (Note to self: "economy" does not mean "compact." Used to be when you paid less you got a small car!)

My stepmother had been sending messages for the past year. Dad was "belligerent." She was thinking about putting him in a "day program." He woke her up at night. He drank too much wine and got "abusive." This one got an instant reaction. "Was he physically abusive?" I asked, trying to wrap my mind around the image of my father raising a fist. "No, he was verbally abusive." "Did he swear?" "No, but he did raise his voice.” She couldn't get anything done because he "shadowed" her. And finally, she’d had enough. She was going to a resort for the weekend and one of us had better show up by 1PM Friday.

I booked a flight, then got out the “living with dementia” book collection I had accumulated over the past year.  One entry caught my eye, “Dealing with inappropriate sexual advances.” My father had flirted with me briefly on my last visit until he realized who I was and shrank with embarrassment. The book advised that you, “Firmly remind the patient who you are,” while keeping your distance. Keeping your distance was also a good strategy when they were angry.

Keeping our distance is something my dad and I have always been good at. We never talk about things – though we talk incessantly. We smile and nod and comment on the weather and the pets and the garden and the food and the car… And somewhere in our hearts of hearts we know that this was how we said the things that matter. That we love each other but don’t know each other very well and don’t really care to… know each other very well.

When I arrived my step-mom radiated anxiety. She had emailed instructions, did I get them? No. She had sent them to my work address. But I checked the address in my extra half hour that morning and there was nothing. Unbelievable. She printed out 3 pages of instructions. My dad is on an incredible regime of nutritional supplements that she has crafted (I conclude) to give structure to their days. She advised that I watch carefully to be sure he swallows them because he has a way of putting them in his pocket for later. Wine should be kept to a minimum, but he could have plenty of coffee. Coffee’s good for him, but wine is not - lots of instructions and dire warnings about failure to comply. The cats weren’t allowed outside because they might get hurt. Then she hopped in the packed and waiting car and drove off.

In the newly quiet kitchen Dad and I looked at each other, shrugged in unison, and went for the ice cream. She didn’t say anything about no ice cream.  So that was the new relationship -- me and my dad, two kids trying to figure things out. My job was to remember the instructions.

He doesn’t remember things from one minute to the next, so we were never at a loss for something to talk about. “Where are the cats?” “What time is it?” “Can you believe that thermometer says 100 degrees?” “What do you want to eat? “Can the cats go out?” This was hard because those cats WANTED out. They parked in front of the gate, peeked underneath to watch shadows moving outside and twitched their tails in irritation when I refused to open it.

We didn’t do much - went to Safeway for more ice cream -  ate everything in the fridge –bought more food - visited the local winery. Drank way too much wine. Sometimes he got scared because he couldn’t figure things out. He thought he was visiting his father’s house, so we went around and looked at the family photos on the wall. He recognized some, including my mother. He wanted to know what happened to her. She died 2 years ago I explained a few times. Mostly he was amazed that his father had accumulated and saved so many of the pictures he must have sent him. So for the weekend my dad and I lived in his father’s home. Only it wasn’t. Dad said to me several times, “People keep telling me that this is my home. So I guess my dad has passed away. It seems vaguely familiar, but I know I haven’t been here very long. I can’t find anything!”

He did wear the same clothes all weekend, and neither one of us showered. I went to the computer periodically to check emails from my anxious students, who had their first assignment due Monday. When I did he shadowed me. He sat still and perfectly erect looking out the bay window in the office. Once a couple of mule deer walked by and he commented on the male’s rack. Once he wandered down the driveway. I rushed out and found him staring at the rental car looking scared. “You OK?” I asked, “Not particularly.” He was trying to figure out whose car that was. I said, for the hundredth time, “This car I rented is a piece of crap. It handles so poorly that I almost ran off the road coming up here.” I discovered lots of ways to tell him what he needed to know while sustaining our mutual denial.

Once we set out for a walk. My dad used to hike for hours through those hills. He had secret trails all over. One neighbor got tired of his intrusions and put a “Private Property” sign right where dad’s trail entered his land. Years after the signs went up my dad is still wondering whether he shouldn’t just take them down and show that guy a thing or two. But that wouldn’t happen on my watch. Only a few hundred yards up the road Dad decided we should go back along one of his other trails. So we picked our way through a neighbor’s field back to familiar turf.  Neither of us got quite enough exercise.

Bedtime was anxious for him. He recognized the pajamas he’d left on his bed, but didn’t recognize the room the bed was in. After we were both in pj’s and slippers he did his rounds checking locks, lights, clocks, and cats’ water a few times before finally settling down. One night he asked, “Who’s going to sleep with me?” And I explained that the kitty would. And the kitty did – every night, bless his furry little soul.

The weekend passed, at times with excruciating slowness. But there were moments of  good fun. We had some laughs about old sayings. “Farting horse will never tire. Farting man’s a man to hire.” (You can imagine how this one came to mind!) Over Mexican food that neither one of us should had been eating Dad told me about his days in the Merchant Marines. He remembered the name of a woman he dated (Ann Franton) and the name of his liberty ship (the Charles R. Russell.) He remembered partying with his mates in uniform when they were on leave in New York City, and the back-breaking work of unloading cargo somewhere in the South Pacific. We listened to the wind in the trees and cursed at the gophers in the garden. I cooked and he did the dishes and we talk and talked.

One afternoon while we basked on the deck drinking coffee my daughter sent a text, “What are you up to?” I replied, “My dad’s demented and we’re drinking coffee.” She wrote back, “My mom’s nuts and we’re doing homework.”

If I’m lucky I’ll get to do it again, but next time will order a “compact” rental car!

I have finally discovered a “how to write” book that makes sense. (As it turns out, the book was there all along, but it took a friend’s advice to steer me to it.) Dorothea Brande’s 1934 work, Becoming a Writer (Penguin Putnam) tackles the fundamental challenges confronted by struggling writers. She offers specific advice on a range of writing topics like: what to do when you get up in the morning, how to spend your free time, what kind of people to avoid, and how to handle caffeine addiction. And yes, she explains, these are writing topics.  

Brande challenges would-be writers to “shit or get off the pot,” as my father would say, suggesting that we make writing appointments with ourselves and, if we fail to meet them, just give it up. I tell my students that showing up is fundamental, but have never applied this strict discipline to my own writing schedule.

 

Brande uses the “magniloquent” term “genius,” to describe the source of a writer’s inspiration. Then she argues that we all have it. We just don’t know how to use it. “No human being is so poor as to have no trace of genius; none so great that he comes within infinity of using his own inheritance to the full.” (p. 157). She demystifies the muse with specific advice on harnessing inspiration when we need it.

 

Then Brande cautions that we are a bunch of word-addicts and if we don’t get away from them we risk losing track of our own voices. She  recommends leisure activities that have “rhythm, monotony, and silence.” She says writers must be free of words both to tap into the unconscious sources of inspiration and to avoid contaminating our own styles. No wonder my friend Beatrice Hale is so productive - when not writing, she's walking or gardening.

 

Like John Gardner (On Becoming a Novelist), Brande advises that we husband our words carefully. Gardner prohibits his writing students from talking about their projects. Brande does the same, suggesting that once the words have escaped, the urge to write will dissipate. This reminds me of Lynley Hood’s suggestion (Sylvia!) that Sylvia Ashton-Warner wrote fiction to create an acceptable escape from an unacceptable reality. Had she accessed an alternate escape route (like chatting in a coffee shop, emailing a friend, or blogging) the world of literature would be diminished.

 

Brande says nothing the business or the craft of writing.  She gives the would-be writer something far more important: permission -- permission to be silent; permission to be alone; permission to be eccentric; and, ultimately, permission to be genius.
                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Writing is easy. You just sit down at the typewriter, open up a vein and bleed it out drop by drop."
-- Sportswriter, Red Smith

The waiter's tattoo said, “envy is ignorance.” I replied, “No, it’s a deadly sin.” He smiled and gave me a roll, but there wasn’t time to tell him the whole story, though I’ve told it to my children so often that they can recite it from the first line.

I was a quivering mass of insecurities in my 20s, eager to please anyone who looked like the father who didn’t give a rat’s ass, kept from an early grave by manic energy and an inborn capacity for locating the closest emergency exit. I’d planned to marry at 27, and I did. To a good man, as it turned out, a lawyer. He lived on Guam and so did I – both conditions that wouldn’t endure but embracing impermanence wasn’t something I’d master for a very long time. So those days seemed like forever.

Kate worked in “the” law firm. The one my husband joined. She was many of the things – at the time I thought everything - that I wasn’t. Mostly the confidence she brought into a room. It’s a confidence I have come to associate with prep school, that sense that everyone’s looking at her and that’s as it should be. Yes, in retrospect there was a certain, “preppiness” to her though at the time I just thought she had things together. She did have most things well in hand: a matching husband who knew how to work a room, two babies who knew not to cry, drool, or drip snot in public, a house, real furniture  doubtless bought new, silverware that matched (something I’ve still not managed to achieve) and my scruffy old beloved even thought she was smart.

The envy crept up on me. I was just curious at first, sniffing around for the flaw, observing with intense disinterest the community’s embrace. Expat lawyers have a built in radar for detecting their own. With me the “blip blip” meant “foreign object approaching.” But she slipped underneath into the welcoming smiles of senior and junior partners alike. She was, truly, in. And as I realized that I was not and never would be the envy got its first toe-hold. In time I couldn’t meet her smiling eyes. I’d say something banal about the bouncing babies -  “Oh my, have her eyes changed color?” Remembering little old me, crying in the bathroom stall when the inevitable drops of blood signaled another failure of our meek attempts at reproduction. That was probably the crux of the matter, though the husband didn’t help. Charming and all, he never did remember my name.

Years passed. My own babies came. We moved away. Lacking anything to draw us together with loads to push us apart, I forgot about Kate. Rumors of her divorce trickled out from Guam, triggering a brief image of perfection marred. She left the law firm, went out on her own to do divorce work. Hers had been “acrimonious,” we heard, with a nasty custody dispute that spun out for years. I couldn’t figure out why she wanted to keep revisiting divorce. You’d think she’d have run like hell. As it turned out, she should have.

Friday August 12, 1989 was the middle of Guam’s rainy season. Clothes and shoes full of mildew, streets slippery with coral oil, smells magnified by heat and moisture and nerves frayed knowing that it will go on and on. Always prompt, at ten minutes to nine Kate walked up the courthouse steps for the fourth hearing in a custody dispute almost as ugly as her own. Turns out the husband was waitingin a dark corner of the parking garage, smoking cigarettes (several) with his new hunting rifle in hand. He was a good shot - hit her right in the back of the head with a bullet that killed her instantly. Kate’s children went to her husband and my green-eyed envy turned into guilt.

Guilt tinged with a hint of sadness. I’m not sure why. I don’t really think I could have saved her – really. But she was suffering and I missed it. Suffering’s a magnet for me, that’s why I went into social work. On some naive level I think “trouble shared is trouble halved.” So yeah, if I hadn’t been so busy cringing in the corner and feeling sorry for myself I might have been able to help.  I think that. 

Emerson to the contrary, envy is not ignorance. It’s a deadly sin.

The cover of the June ’09 Atlantic Month features a radiantly happy young man and the promise of lessons on happiness from “an amazing 72-year study" (http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200906/happiness). Who could resist?

Turning to page 36, the cover shot makes more sense. The study in question was the Harvard Study of Adult Development, the not-so-aptly named longitudinal study of Harvard men conducted by George Vaillant. (Gee whiz, I thought he was dead! I also thought the era of the generic “he” long past.) We studied Vaillant in college as a classic example of psychologists who use a male metric to measure all of humanity. Yep, George derived his elaborate theory of human development from a sample of 268 men – but these were HARVARD men – and a special group at that, HARVARD men selected because their early selves promised success. So, with untold (literally, unmentioned) amounts of foundation money they were poked and prodded in periodic physical exams while social workers visited their families, RA’s mailed them surveys, and the occasional graduate student met them for in-depth interviews ever 15 years.

Caveat reador, I guess. Atlantic author Joshua Shenk goes along with the program, skipping past the blatantly unrepresentative sample to get to the meat of the matter.

“Where’s the beef?” Others might disagree, but to me the crux of the findings is found on page 46, where Shenk lists the “seven major factors that predict healthy aging, both physically and psychologically.” Measured at age 50, they were: education, (no surprise there, though one wonders what kind of variation they had) stable marriage, not smoking, not abusing alcohol, some exercise, and healthy weight. Those with five or 6 of these factors had only a 7.5% chance of ending up at 80 in the category Vaillant called “sad-sick,” whereas half ended up “happy-well.” Among those with three or fewer factors at fifty NONE “ended up happy-well.” Sorry, but I remain unconvinced.

I wonder, for instance, how Vaillant evaluated happiness among his 80-year olds. Might it not have a wee bit to do with the very factors used to predict it? I can spot a tautology at 50 yards and this shaves pretty close. The factors that “predict” healthy aging look very much like the definition of healthy aging. How can we tease out what “predicts” (the implication here is “causes”) well-being from our very definition of well-being? A lot hinges on how well-being was measured, which is, conveniently left out of the article.

Methodological limitations aside, the piece does tell an interesting story of Vaillant’s progression as a researcher. Enamored of his method, Vaillant said, “To be able to study lives in such depth, over so many decades, it was like looking through the Mount Palomar telescope.” (p. 40). But a telescope’s gaze is hardly appropriate for understanding the complicated lives of individual humans. As his successful career moved on, it seems that Vaillant’s passion for his method shifted. Described by Shenk as “more like a biographer,” (p. 44) Vaillant sought to make sense of individual lives for their own sake, rather than for the pursuit of generalities. Then things started to get interesting.

Where Vaillant’s generalities are suspect, the stories he collected reveal their own truths. There’s the story of a beloved physician and husband. For his 70th birthday his wife asked his long-time patients to write letters of appreciation. The result was a flood of missives packed with love and gratitude that, as it turns out, eight years later the man had never opened. Now that’s poignant! Or something. There’s the man whose life froze when he failed for the first time after a life full of glorious success. Or the one who came out at 70 and told his middle-aged children he was gay.

Though he doesn’t seem to have cracked the happiness nut, as a “keeper of biographies” Vaillant makes a tremendous contribution.

Meandering through my home and compiling a list of summer projects I'm struck by the notion that I treat my house the same way I treat my 50-something body. Mostly I care about how it feels and how it works -- not how it looks. People who visit comment on how "comfortable" the place is. Comfortable's good. It's not "beautiful" or "stunning." But most days it'll do. The body equivalent is, “Well-preserved.”

But then there are those neurotic days -- when I've agreed to host a big party or my in-laws are coming to dinner. I rush around cleaning and think I have it nailed. Then, 2 minutes before the guests arrive, I notice scratches that have always been there and think, "The food had better be good cuz this place is not going to impress..." The body equivalent? 40^th high school reunions.

Living in the U.S., I absorbed the notions that "bigger is better" and "newer is even more better."  American couples live in spaces that could accommodate 6 Chinese families! More times than I care to count I've attended functions in homes that looked like they'd never been caressed by a child's muddy hand. Proud owners of spotless mansions would beam as their guests raved about how wonderful their houses (and by extension their selves) were. Before the event even got started I'd wish I were home in my little place that was "not quite up to par."

Then I moved to New Zealand, and a colleague with three rambunctious children invited me to her home for "tea." (We call it dinner.) Carefully attired, I found my way to a meandering home set in a "typical" English garden. I was enchanted until we got to the "lounge" (living room). Clutter is putting it mildly. Toys were scattered, drapes askew, old cups sat on the coffee table. Was I here on the wrong day? I felt like I was intruding on their private lives. But no, I was invited to join the family for tea. They saw no need to tidy up. After all, whoM were they trying to impress?

Over the years I've been invited to many homes and, while host and hostess bustled a good deal with food and entertainment, no one (and no house) showed signs of the manic cleaning that used to go on in my place getting ready for guests. They looked lived in, comfortable. Eventually I learned to prepare for guests with a focus on food, comfort, and entertainment rather than appearances.

Mostly, with home and body, I care about how it feels and how it works. But from time-to-neurotic-time I yield to that old judgmental gaze. I step on the scale or look at a photo and think, "not quite up to par." I compare my comfy old body to a 30-something model and feel somehow less-than.  I see spots on the windows and decide to give them a good cleaning,  “in case someone drops in."  After the neurotic burst of cleaning or dieting; tidying up or dressing up there's nothing to do but shake my head, laugh and go to the party.

 

1) If you are awake at 6AM – go outside and do something. It may be your last chance for a long time.

2) When walking barefoot down the road, step on the white lines. Cars can go around you and it’ll save your feet.

3) Speaking of feet . . . stickers are your friends. They build calluses on the soles. Don’t fret, just yank them out and move on.

4) Don’t bother trying to remove those little cactus spines with tweezers. Use your teeth – or a friend’s teeth if you can’t reach.

5) If your neighbor’s wasted water is running past your house. Re-channel it to water your weeds. Green weeds are prettier than yellow, but not worth the price of water.

6) Afternoons are for napping . . . in the shade.

7) If you hear a sprinkler out on the trail it could be a rattlesnake. Remain calm and back slowly away. Remember, most bites are not lethal.

8) Build your walls with adobe and plant your shade trees in the Southwest corner.

9)  Don’t hurry. It will make you hallucinate.

10)  That wavery stuff in the distance isn’t water . . . It isn’t even stuff.

After you tell a story a few times it loses its luster. Well-intentioned friends indulge you, listening with a polite gaze until you realize you’ve told them before. Then you have to decide whether to pretend you’re unaware and barrel ahead or cut your losses and come clean. “I’ve told you this one, haven’t I?” Sharing your embarrassment, they nod. Still, I prefer these gentle souls to hardy, honest types who can’t be bothered. Just as you’re getting into the rhythm they call an abrupt halt, “You’ve already told me this.” Ouch. So with apologies to those who have listened to me this week I’ll tell the story one last time.

It’s a longish story about rules. But it’s also about getting along and going overboard. It has a bit of a moral, but it’s short on suspense – if you didn’t have to live it! Here’s how it goes:

On June 28, 2007 (precise dates are important, as you’ll see) my family and I arrived in New Zealand as permanent residents, our passports bearing two lovely new pages: a “resident’s visa” scheduled to expire on an “indefinite” date, and a “returning resident’s visa” (lovingly known as an “RR” visa) that would expire two years from our arrival. That would be June 28, 2009.

You don’t want to be caught overseas with an expired RR visa, having been notified in multiple official ways that absent a valid RR visa you may not be allowed to board any flight into New Zealand. “May” is a funny word, and I’m an American. I read it as “will.” But then I heard a story from my friend, Debra. She forgot about an expired RR visa. When she went to check in for a flight from Los Angeles to Auckland the woman behind the counter took a little too long examining her passport. Then she wrinkled her nose and picked up the phone.

Debra knew she was in trouble. But she wasn’t sure how much. If she had been trying to enter America, she’d be in BIG trouble. But trouble takes on a different meaning in this gentle country. Deb was allowed to board her flight in LA, but almost missed the flight to Dunedin waiting while Auckland immigration officials scrambled to get her a temporary RR visa. Comparatively speaking - not such big trouble. But Deb is a much better immigrant and a much nicer person than I.  I figured if I did such a thing they’d never let me on the plane. I’d be stuck in LAX like Tom Hanks in The Terminal.

My family can testify that I was obsessive about that RR visa. New Zealand will extend the RR for a year if you haven’t committed a major crime. But I was after the coveted “indefinite extension.” I wanted to be a “permanent resident with indefinite right of return,” and I wanted it BAD. To get it you have to meet CRITERIA. I can handle criteria. I have a PhD.  Hell, I live for criteria! So I memorized those criteria.

The first was simple: spend at least 184 days in New Zealand each year of the two years that your RR visa is valid. How hard could that be? For me it was beyond hard. It was impossible.  Failing the “time spent in New Zealand” criterion you still have options. One is to place $1,000,000 in an approved investment for two years. One is to run a successful NZ business for two years. Others are equally impossible except for, “be a NZ tax resident for two years.”

“What is a NZ tax resident?” Happens there are criteria for this too. The would-be resident must “demonstrate an enduring commitment to New Zealand.” Enduring commitment? This sounds complicated and difficult. My yoga teacher was teaching me to, “embrace impermanence.” I was starting to get it. Nothing’s enduring! Commitment to a nation-state? That sounds hazardous to anyone’s health! Before I went off the deep end, Larry (my husband the tax attorney) explained that in this case enduring commitment is jargon for “pay your taxes.” In New Zealand that is pretty easy. You don’t have a choice. Taxes are automatically deducted from wages & savings account interest. Everything. I paid my taxes without lifting a finger. I didn’t even have to file a return! So I did. For two years I paid my taxes and wondered what they really meant by “enduring commitment.”

Turns out, they really meant “pay your taxes.” 

In March 2009 I was preparing to leave New Zealand for what could be a long time. I called the Inland Revenue Department (IRD) to ask how I could persuade immigration that I was a tax resident. As anyone who’s been here for over three months could have told you, “There’s a form for that” There’s a form for everything! This one’s an immigration form called “Confirmation of Tax Resident Status.” Once approved and stamped by the IRD it constitutes official proof of enduring commitment. I made an appointment, went in, and a nice young woman signed and stamped my form. I felt so secure walking home with that form in my pocket and figuring I had an enduring commitment to New Zealand even though I was about to leave for a long time.

I was in Salt Lake for a couple of months. One day I turned to our kitchen calendar and realized with a hint of panic that it was June.  I could either go back to New Zealand BEFORE my RR visa expired on the 28th or I could take my chances and do it “overseas” In this case that meant through the NZ consulate in D.C. The consulate didn’t return emails or phone calls. Besides there was that subtle threat in the official pamphlets that listed “applying overseas” among the reasons why a visa might be denied. It was time to head South.

I arrived one day before my RR expired. As I went through the short line at immigration I asked the officer what would have happened if I’d arrived 2 days later. He explained that the airline would have “made arrangements” through Auckland for my visa to be taken care of.  With a smile, “We wouldn’t leave you stranded!” So why, I ask, am I doing all this? Why did I leave the best of Utah summer, my newly planted herbs, my sweetie, my children, my deck in need of painting and my dog’s ear infection?

That Monday (June 29th) I staggered through jet lag to the Dunedin immigration office to submit the application that I had carefully completed on the other hemisphere the week before. Everything was in an orderly folder. I was ready for anything. But what happened was nothing. The Maori-looking woman behind the desk took my application, my supporting documents, our passports and my check, saying, “Come back tomorrow.”

How easy could this be? I chortled to myself as I walked back to the office. No probing questions, no detailed scrutiny, just “come back tomorrow.” Fine. I passed an easy night and came back the next morning. “The woman,” as I thought of her for a long time after, said to me, “You are not eligible for an indefinite extension so I have awarded you a year’s extension.” “OK” I squeaked, figuring they had decided that my commitment to NZ was not so enduring after all. When she returned with the passports two German tourists were waiting impatiently behind me to discuss their visitor’s visas.

They would have to wait. My family’s fate depended entirely on mine so I had to ask why I was ineligible. I had to understand. I figured in those hours of careful study I had missed something. In my heart of hearts I didn’t think I could earn the coveted “indefinite” status just by paying my taxes for two years. I figured immigration was on to me. But no. That wasn’t the problem. The woman pointed to the treasured IRD form that confirmed my tax resident status. In a small box in the left-hand corner was the date my status began: July 2, 2007. I had submitted my application on June 29 -- three days before I’d been a tax resident for two years. Ouch. Tears pressing, I asked, “Could I apply on July 3rd? I’ll be eligible then.” “No,” she explained, “You have to wait until the year extension we just issued expires.” She kept my folder and gave me the passports.

I swore at myself, at bureaucracy, and at “the woman” on my walk back up George Street. People must have wondered, because I swore out loud. And I cried. I had failed my family and myself. I leaned against the cool steel column of a street light and banged my forehead. What an idiot! I wallowed in insecurity. I decided it didn’t matter,  “Oh well, a year’s not so bad.” Then I changed my mind. I would leave this rotten country for good and boy that would show them!  No, I would make that woman’s life miserable. I would ruin her!

Calling home from the office, I apologized to my kids, who didn’t really mind; and to Larry, who couldn’t care less. They just wanted me to come back. I tossed and turned for nights. I figured this indigenous woman didn’t like me because I reminded her of the millions of other foreigners who had robbed her people. . I tried not to hate her, but I did wonder why she hated me. Why hadn’t she told me BEFORE processing the application that I was three days too early?

Maybe she had. Maybe the pause before I squeaked out “OK” was my opportunity to stop the process. Maybe if I’d had my brain in gear I would have realized that. I was an idiot. Friends commiserated and offered advice and support. Some agreed that I was an idiot. Some suggested I go to my MP. Some offered to go with me to immigration. Some told me what to do. “Ask for an appeal,” said an American.

I called the “National Immigration Helpline.”  I certainly could use some help! A woman named Carolyn looked up my file, put me on hold, then said “There’s no reason you can’t re-apply. You’ll have to get a new IRD form and pay the fee again.” Ah Carolyn! At last I could quit loathing myself and DO something!  I emailed “the woman,”

Thank you for your help with this Visa. Would you please advise me regarding appeal procedures?  I've thought about this, and would like to resubmit my application after July 2, when I will meet conditions for the Indefinite Extension. I appreciate your consideration.
Best regards,
Amanda Barusch
Professor
Dept. of Social Work & Community Development
University of Otago

You’ll note the well-calibrated use of gratitude coupled with my awe-inspiring official identity. Surely that would force her to reconsider. Nope. Her reply came back the same day:

As, I had explained to you yesterday at the counter, even if you do meet
one of the conditions for an Indefinite Returning Resident's Visa now,
we will still issued you with a 12 months Returning Resident's Visa as
there is no exception to policy for applying early instead of on 30 June
2010 or after when your current RRV expires.

You’ll note that she didn’t answer my question about appeal procedures. Then there’s the awkward syntax…the minor typo. Obviously she was deeply conflicted about this. Was she hiding something? Was I going off the deep end?

Fun as it was, this had to stop.  I set out to get a new form confirming my tax resident status, calling the IRD to set up another appointment. But the rules had changed – remember the new National government? Now I had to complete a questionnaire. No, they couldn’t email it to me. No, it couldn’t be downloaded. It had to go through the mail. This would take 5 to 10 days. Ouch! I was scheduled to go back to the states in 10 days. That didn’t give me much leeway. This woman said she’d mail it right away so she gave me an appointment five days hence. I haunted the mailbox at work. Everyone knew I was “waiting on a letter from IRD.” Yes, I was a bit of a drama queen. Five days passed without a thing. I decided to postpone my appointment. I changed my mind. Often. I thought I might just turn up without the questionnaire and pretend I didn’t know…

An hour before my scheduled appointment the questionnaire arrived. I glanced at the ten-page form with parallel columns for resources, income and social ties in New Zealand and “Overseas” and thought, “They’ve got me. This is the end. Clearly, I am NOT a tax resident of New Zealand.” For every item under New Zealand there was at least one for “overseas.” For every club in the Southern hemisphere there was one in the Northern. I had a rented house in New Zealand and a mortgaged house in the U.S. For crying out loud, my family was in the U.S. Gads. I thought about lying. But a) I’m a terrible lawyer, and b) Larry warned me never to lie to the tax man. Mostly I was afraid I’d get caught. So I carefully filled out each column and dashed off to my appointment where a young woman flipped through the pages and declared that it all looked “great.” Despite myself, it seemed that I WAS a tax resident of New Zealand --  signed sealed and delivered – twice.

It was time to go back to immigration, but I had my doubts.  “The woman” already hated me and with no access to appeal, I couldn’t afford to alienate her further. I had to be sure I was doing things right. So…when in doubt…I called the National Helpline again. Again, a woman explained that I was within my rights. This time I was more direct, “Look, I don’t want to be hostile with the Dunedin branch. What should I do? “ We talked about going to her supervisor. I asked about lodging an appeal. “No,” my new advisor explained, “You should query her.” Another one of those nouns that becomes a verb was the answer to my puzzle. In this context a “query” is essentially an appeal. What a polite way to ask the woman who had our lives in her hands the basis for her decisions!

With this new vocabulary I was able to write a two-page letter to “the woman.” I outlined “the facts,” of our encounter to make it clear that she had never warned me that I was too early. Then I asked her 1) Why my application for an indefinite extension was denied and 2) Why I could not apply again? Her reply came via email the same day. I was denied because I was not eligible, and she would have to ask her manager why I could not apply again. She would get back to me. And somehow I saw a victory here. She didn’t deny the facts! That was tantamount to admitting that she had not warned me. Ah yes,  I was making headway

I waited exactly one day for her reply. Then, in a daring stroke, I decided to go to the immigration office I envisioned myself doing a 60’s style sit-in, “I’m going to stay here until you let me re-apply.” Maybe I was desperate. Or maybe I didn’t have much else to do. I did take a book . But I never cracked it. I planted myself at a table and slowly, carefully filled out a new application. While I worked a Kiwi bloke came in with a young Pacific man. The Kiwi was angry when she explained that immigration required a written request for information on the young man’s application for a work permit even though he was standing right there. She carefully explained with complete absence of emotion that he would have to specify his information needs in writing. Huffing and puffing he stomped out of the office, muttering about bureaucracy. I could see both sides. There I was, admiring her cool, calm clarity – identifying with the aggressor - where only minutes before I’d been thinking of her as a four-letter word.

I approached her desk with newfound appreciation, and carefully laid out my application,  my new IRD form, our passports and my checkbook. “Hi.” I said. She said “I haven’t spoken to my manager yet.” Now here’s where New Zealand and America differ. If I had been an immigrant to the US of A she would have said, “You’ll have to come back later.” Instead, she said, “I’ll go do that now.” I waited for three of the longest minutes I’ve lived through before she came back and said “OK.” That’s all. Just, “OK.” Writing out my check I tried not to sigh with relief. I worried, “If there’s a problem…?” “I’ll be in touch.” She said. I joked, “You know, I’m not very good at this.” For an instant I know she grinned before she replied, “Come back tomorrow.”

I didn’t sleep much that night. Surely something would go wrong. I had left a date blank because I wasn’t sure when my first resident’s visa was issued and I didn’t want to get it wrong.  That would wreck the whole, carefully-negotiated deal. The next morning was a busy one at the immigration office, but I felt like I owned the place. I waited for the man who wanted to know how to sponsor his family to come over from Turkey. I waited for the student who wasn’t at University because he’d come upon hard times. Then I nearly sauntered up to the counter. Erihapeti reached into her drawer and handed me our passports. “See you later!” I said, as I strolled out of the office.

The rest, as they say, is history. I write now as a “permanent resident of New Zealand with indefinite right of return.” Has a nice ring, eh?

Stories are essential to our personal and collective development, so narrative is a vital component of any enterprise that seeks to understand what it means to be human. In narrative methods science and the humanities merge, generating insights and revealing meanings that are intensely personal, broadly relevant, and inevitably fluid. This, I think, is the nature of truth. I like Hanah Arendt's definition of storytelling: an activity that "reveals meaning without committing the error of defining it." (Men in Dark Times, 1973, p. 107).

But hey, facts matter, even in a post-modern universe; as Oprah learned from the A Million Little Pieces debacle. A few hours in jail simply does not equal 87 days in prison, and James Frey pulled a fast one there. (So, is the guy who wrote The Blood Runs Like a River Through my Dreams really a white man posing as Native American? Ethnicity is socially, not personally constructed, eh?) Constructed universe aside, when people lie for personal gain we feel betrayed. When people don't "get their facts straight," we feel contempt. Yes, facts matter.

Here we have both the strength and the Achille's heel of the scientific method. Strong on facts - weak on meaning. Great on details - missing the big picture. Could narrative methods get us past this? Can we merge the precision and accuracy of traditional scientific methods with the evocative lyricism of the humanities? Or would it be like trying to combine oil & vinegar?

Standing before the full-length mirror in my bedroom I am confused. This morning when I posed in my underwear I thought, “Not bad for 53. You go girl!” This evening, it’s “How did you get so stocky so quickly?  Cover that up!” How can the same mirror present such contrasting images in the space of a single day?  Isn't anything true for more than 12 hours? This, I think, is the source of my mistrust of authobiography - my never-ending quest for eternal truths. But what does my judgmental response say about older women in our society and the interface between personal and political? Feminist theory revisited, and this is what I like about autoethnography.

Auto-ethnography is quite seductive. It’s the ultimate post-modern research approach and you don’t even need Ethics (IRB) approval! Carefully document your life then use your knowledge of social theory, history, philosophy, and/or anthropology to reflect on what this means and place your experiences in a broader context. The process comes naturally to social workers. And it’s legitimate! At least some people think so.

Indeed there are measures for assessing the quality of auto-ethnographic reports: resonance, validity, and narrative truth. Aha! Someone cares about truth! This would suggest that it’s not just navel-gazing. Then Allan Sparkes (2001)[or was it Carolyn Ellis, 1999?] offered more evocative criteria: “the use of systematic sociological introspection and emotional recall; the inclusion of the researcher’s vulnerable selves, emotions, body ad spirit; the production of evocative stories that create the effect of reality; the celebration of concrete experience and intimate detail; the examination of how human experience is endowed with meaning; a concern with moral, ethical, and political consequences; an encouragement of empathy; a focus on helping us know how to live and cope; the featuring of multiple voices and the repositioning of readers and “subjects” as co-participants in dialogue; [and] the search for a fusion between social sciences and literature…” (p 214)

Auto-ethnography combines personal and societal reflection, teasing forth the warp and the woof of our social fabric. Shifting our gaze back and forth from internal to external in a way that others can follow. I stuck my toe in with Love Stories of Later Life, and plan to dive in headfirst in my next book,  Parenting Reflections. It’s a bit scary. Who wants to be accused of self-indulgence? But hey, “you gotta do what you gotta do.” And where did that come from?

 

Wandering in the hills behind our house I was startled when a drop of rain landed beneath my eye. I wondered why I was crying. Desert walks can bring forth the most primal emotions. Then I realized it wasn’t me crying.

 

Unlike Sting, I’ve never smelled a desert rose.  But I have breathed in that magic scent the desert gives off when it absorbs those first drops from the heavens. Sometimes I wonder whether the scent is real or the imagined result of long spells without. I’ll be walking along in a vast desert landscape and all of a sudden my mind blossoms with hope and my nose expands to capture the delicious aroma. One happy breath and then it’s gone. Just like that. The promise of bounty disappears and it’s just mud in the trail, damp laundry on the line, and little dust circles on the porch.

 

I think the smell is caused by a chemical reaction between desert soil and water. Seems healthy desert dirt has a crust of cryptogamic soil and when it starts to rain little bacteria in that cryptogamic crust release their spores. They figure it’s a good time to plan for the future. Those spores have been waiting a long time for this moment. No wonder they smell so good.

 

My neighbor thinks it’s ozone. I guess a lot of people do. The way they figure, it has nothing to do with dirt. It’s all about rain. Those first drops come plummeting down for miles, gathering ions along the way for a bit of an “electrostatic” charge and voila, they make magic in the air that the ones to follow can’t even begin to duplicate.

 

In this post-modern world we could both be right. But the smell I’m dreaming of has everything to do with dirt and – yes, Sting - to the promise of gardens in the desert.