Tag Archives: Education

I can’t keep my teeth in my mouth.

2 Dec

Gross.  They fall out.  They shatter into bits. It happens when I eat. It happens when I smile. They can get knocked out with an intense impact.  They can get knocked out with a soft kiss. Sometimes it is bloody and painful.  Sometimes it is subtle and I don’t notice until I choke on them. Sometimes they leave a big gaping hole.  Sometimes they leave a perfectly smoothed over space. Sometimes it happens in my sleep…all right, it ONLY happens in my sleep.  I keep having the “losing your teeth” dreams.

I have always heard that these kind of dreams are anxiety induced.  Being the intrepid woman I am, I Googled “dreams losing your teeth”.  Huh.  Surprisingly not that helpful and I even have a big thing for symbolism.  I love symbolism in literature, in art, in religion…in basically anything.  I give my Color Photography class an assignment called “The Psychology and Symbolism of Color” and I give my Intermediate Photographic Concepts class an assignment called “One Thousand Words” which is based on the methodology of Dutch Vanitas painting.

So, why weren’t the dream interpretation sites I explored helpful?  Because I couldn’t relate anything they discussed to my lucid life.

Stressed about your job situation? Nope.  I love my job.  It is true that a new academic quarter is starting next week, but that has happened every 3 months for the last five years.  That is not stressful.  It is exciting and I happily anticipate it.

Fear of being impotent?  Being a lady with lady parts the most common understanding of the word impotent doesn’t apply to me. As for the other definition, there really isn’t anything monumental that I am feeling powerless or helpless to control.

Afraid of looking stupid in front of people?  Uh…who isn’t?  Nobody likes to look stupid in front of people, but I do it all the time.  I usually laugh about it and move on.  (That was a gift from my dad.  Thanks dad!)

Stress about looking older/trying to stay young?  I am looking older these days.  That is probably because I am older these days.  So what.  I joke about it but I am most certainly not stressed about it.  My livelihood does not depend on looking youthful and neither do any of my relationships.

Have you lied to somebody?  It would be a lie to say that I don’t lie.  Everybody does.  I can tell a little one without much effort. I can answer the question, “How are you?” with an easy, “Fine” even though I have a throbbing headache and feel like I am going to throw up.  I am not so good at the big lies though.  It started in Kindergarten when I had some unexplained crayons in my backpack.  My dad asked me about them when I was in the bathtub that evening. (I remember this as clear as if it were yesterday.)  I tried to lie and tell him that Ms. Thompson gave them to me.  He knew immediately that was untrue and the next day made me take them back to her and confess.  Since then I have been insecure about my ability to tell a believable lie.  It didn’t stop me from trying as a teenager.  I got in trouble a lot.  So, no I haven’t told any big lies lately.

Lacking power at work or relationship? I actually have a remarkable amount of “power” at work.  I was hired  because it was believed I could do the job well and I have the freedom to design my courses how I think they should be to best serve my students.  As far as my relationships are concerned, they are all very healthy.  I don’t want “power” in my marriage.  I want equality and that is what I have.  I get along beautifully with my family and my in-laws and so does my husband.  I have the appropriate amount of power over my children.  I parent them…usually effectively.

Money?  Well, we never have any extra, but we are also not starving, naked, or homeless.  We have remarkably generous family members on both sides that help us out when we need it.

Truth be told, my dental health has been on a downward spiral since my second son was conceived.  In the last two years I have had 3 cavities, 2 root canals, 2 broken teeth, 3 crowns, 2 infections, and my jaw has been out of alignment 3+ times (which really really hurts).

Even Sigmund Freud said, “Sometimes is a cigar is just a cigar.”

I just made an appointment with the dentist.

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I failed.

22 Nov

I have failed quite a few things in my time on this planet.  Fine.  Whatever.  I took the driving portion of the DMV test 4 times before being awarded my license. In my defense, I passed the written part the on the first try and was a nervous 15-year-old.  I failed a couple of courses in high school and a couple more in undergrad.  That was my fault for not paying attention and/or not showing up.  I failed at my first marriage.  I was 23 and knew what I wanted, not what I needed.  I failed as a saxophone player in middle school.  It was heavy!  I failed at snowboarding.  I am just not that coordinated.  I have failed at doing my fair share, remaining composed, being sympathetic, picking right over wrong, meeting deadlines, following up, apologizing, saying what I mean, losing weight, quitting smoking, correct pronunciations, simple math problems, remember things, listening, and being on time.  I failed a pregnancy test twice…

In the end, very few of those things mattered and some of them even turned out for the best despite their poor initial showing.  I have had my fair share of successes.  I even have a document printed on the skin of a dead animal declaring me a master.  (I totally would have opted for the paper if I knew I had a choice!) Those are stories for a different day. It is my failure as a writer that continues to needle me.  I finished my undergraduate degree with a major in studio art and a minor in English (creative writing).  It could have gone either way for me.  It just so happens by the time I visited an adviser I had 1 art class left for the B.A. in studio art and 3 left for the B.A. in English.  I went for the art degree.  After 5.5 years it was the way to go.  For several years I wallowed happily in the mud of mediocrity.  I dabbled in both photography and creative writing.  I taught art to elementary school students and later English literature and creative writing to high school students.  I loved both jobs.  What I did not love was the idea that I was done growing and evolving as an image maker or writer.  A good number of my friends at the time had terminal degrees and spoke enthusiastically about what a gift it was to have had the time away from “real life” to hone their craft and refine their methods of expression.  Slowly my mud stopped being safe and pleasant and started to get sticky.  I found myself increasingly frustrated with my creative works.  They were stagnant and juvenile.  One subject in particular proved itself to be impossible to express through either photographic imagery or the written word.  I tried innumerable times to address the death of my father with seriously limited success in either media.  It was time for graduate school. I looked into programs that offered a MFA in photography and those that offered a MFA in creative writing.  I labored over statements and cover letters.  The more I wrote the more frustrated I became.  I found myself blaming language for my inability to communicate.  In one rash moment, I unceremoniously discarded all the creative writing applications and dedicated my life to the photographic image.

It was not a mistake.  I thrived in my MFA program.  My images grew technically, expressively, became more sophisticated, and I leaned who I was artistically.  I finished my degree, worked a year in a museum, and then landed the coveted college teaching position.  14 years after my father’s death I have finally made a series of images that address this ever elusive topic.  Granted, they don’t even begin to scratch the surface of my experiences or emotions in regards to losing my dad.  I have not resolved anything, nor do I think I ever will or even want to.  What I did succeed in doing I am very proud of.  I simultaneously communicated my grief and gratitude.

Bolstered by my pride in that series of images I thought, maybe now I can do my dad and his life some justice with the written word.  It turns out that I cannot.  I tried.  I failed.  I found myself reverting back to my old argument that words are weak and incapable of the depth I need.  While that may be MY truth, it is not THE truth.  I have read so many well crafted,  interesting, and entertaining blog entries since joining this crowd a couple of weeks ago.  Here are some recent examples that I enjoy and am admittedly a little envious of: The Laws of Nature « Becoming ClicheProcrastination and the Time Thief | Rant Rave Write.  Rebellious Phase (Or Why I Blame Boyfriend For Ruining My life) « purposefullyawkward.  Boxers & Blugs « Kana’s Notebook.  Panic and Maternity Pants « brokencondoms.  Driving in America « Miss Demure Restraint.  Weak words are definitely not their truth.

Right now I feel like Alastair.  He is 4 years old and in a manic struggle with the number 5.  He can count to and far beyond the number 5.  He can add and subtract to reach 5.  He can write the letters to spell five.  He can recognize a well crafted “5” when he sees one.  He can also recognize a poorly crafted “5” when he sees one.  What he cannot do is get his brain and hand to co-operate to consistently create his own beautifully handwritten number 5.  The frustration causes screaming, tears, and projections.  I know, buddy, I totally get it.

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