Another Crisis Averted

The powers of the universe, sensing the steady decline into madness that was occurring yesterday in my soul, sent a series of interventions that worked to my benefit. It appears that God, in His infinite and unknowable mercy, doesn't want me to be mad. This goes along with the assumption that I've already come to, namely, that He doesn't want me dead, that there must be a divine plan for my life, or I would have died in a car accident long ago. (Memphis drivers....ugh.) 

After having spent a good portion of the morning on my letter to the editor, I taught a few piano lessons and headed out to school, bitterly aware of the fact that my Spanish textbook still wasn't in. If I didn't get that textbook soon, as in at that very moment, I was going to be in muchos problemas with Senorita Tina. Y'all know me. You know that I, Katie, aka SuperNerd, hate not having my work done in a timely manner. I live in a never ending search to make my professors proud, and Senorita Tina doesn't know me from Adam. First impressions last a lifetime, my friends, and I was making a first impression as a flaky, airhead of a junior. This does not a happy Katie make. 

When I got to class (my favorite of the semester: History of Film! Squee!), I was not in a particularly good mood, although it was lifted some by how beautiful it was outside. Sixty degrees and blue skies! Doesn't get much better than that, even if it is January and supposed to be dreary and cold. If it had been any other class (in other words, a class which obviously requires electronic devices), I would have begged the professor to move the class outdoors.  So I walk into class, expecting to have a good class but be unable to concentrate, due to trying to salvage my scholastic future from the dump.

Dr. Jenkins revealed his professorial rock star status once more. 

What did he do, you ask? He brought in movies! 

The movies were relevant to the class material, of course. We've been studying the beginnings of films, silent pictures and stuff. So the first film we watched in class was a documentary that started with the Golden Age of silent film and progressed through Griffith's Birth of a Nation. The documentary was absolutely fascinating, with interviews with actual directors, cameramen, and actors and actresses of the time. 

It also contained bits of trivia about certain movies. We watched bits of one hysterical early Laurel and Hardy film in which they're absolutely tearing a house apart. The commentary said that the house was owned by a member of the film studio. The studio sent the man and his wife on vacation for a month with the guarantee that by the time they returned, their house would be returned to normal. When the production crew arrived at the house, though, they found that their key didn't work. Unperturbed, they merely broke down the door and got down to business. The characters subsequently busted windows, chopped down trees and bushes, and played baseball with vases from inside the house. Imagine their surprise, therefore, when a car pulled up and the man and woman inside, at the sight of the damage, promptly fainted. The production crew was at the wrong house!

I think my favorite silent actress is Lillian Gish. She was so well spoken in the documentary, and her acting was superb. She told so much of the story with her eyes and hands -- amazing. It kind of makes you take a second look at the actors of today. I certainly don't think that Keira Knightley could do the kind of acting that Lillian Gish did. I also like the fact that Lillian Gish hasn't compromised her views over the years. She hates what sound did to the movies, and had very good reasons as to why she hated it. She said it detracted away from the Art of film, that film and music were perfectly married, and that introducing words destroyed that union. Right or wrong, she's still saying the same things she likely said in the early part of the century, and you have to respect her for that. She hasn't cheapened her opinions.

Incidentally, I had no idea that Birth of a Nation was such a big deal. I wonder what Griffith thought about the fact that his movie masterpiece almost single-handedly rejuvenated the Ku Klux Klan? It kind of makes you hesitant as an artist -- who knows what kind of reaction your creation might evoke? I'm sure Upton Sinclair would say the same thing. He wrote a novel expecting to promote his form of art and ended up revolutionizing the sanitary conditions of our country. Disappointing to a degree, but no doubt necessary.

Anyway, the documentary took up most of our class time, but we spent the last ten minutes watching a shorter Griffith film, The Girl and Her Trust. It was the typical damsel in distress type film, but it was great. I've never watched much silent film, but I was fascinated with it. Isn't it marvelous that a lost art like that can still evoke such strong emotions? While I was irritated with the screaming, helpless heroine (just jump off the stupid handcart already, you feeb!), I still cheered the hero on in his quest to save her from the tramps. What does that say? It says that Griffith was marvelous. Racist, perhaps, but marvelous.

In any case, the movies preserved my sanity for a while. The attempt to keep from being fitted for a coat that would allow me to hug myself all the time was further helped by Mom showing up at the school and buying me a Spanish textbook from the bookstore since it appears that the one we ordered will never arrive. Gracias, Dios y Mama!

I drove home from school, and even put the windows down once I got off the interstate, and didn't care about the strange looks I got when people caught me singing, loudly, to "Can I Have This Dance?" and "Benny and the Jets." It was sheer joy. 

Then I taught a piano lesson, for which the student was ten minutes late, hadn't practiced, and his father came in and talked for fifteen minutes. Grr. But then, wonder of wonders, Mom revealed the menu of the evening: homemade fried chicken strips, corn, fruit cocktail, biscuits, and bread pudding.

Bliss.

Another crisis has been averted, Batman! I will retain my sanity, thanks to small blessings! I love my life. Really, even when it gets hairy, it's still beautiful. Sometimes you just have to shave it a bit to reveal the beauty.

Dear Crichton Dos...

My fabulous sister Shelby wrote a letter to the editor, too. It's far more intellectual than mine; I thought it was quite splendid. Here you go!

To

To the City of Memphis:       

At my first philosophy class, my professor introduced Aristotle’s concept of teleology by placing his sneaker against the open door and asking the class, “Is this still a sneaker or is it now a doorstop?” 

Given the events that have happened at Crichton the last few years, I feel we must ask the same question. Is the college still a college? Although the answer to that question is eminently clear now, one might also ask, when did it cease to be a college? Yesterday when the announcement to close the day program was made? Or even earlier than that? 

It is my belief that Crichton ceased to be a real college years ago. According to Aristotle, when an institution ceases to fulfill its rightful purpose, then it ceases to work properly as an institution. It is imperfect. 

In the end, we must ask, “When did Crichton cease to be a college?” Was it when the Big-Brother inspired administration fired the Dean of School of Arts and Sciences (the same philosophy professor who introduced me to Aristotle) for speaking out against the college’s esteemed president two years ago? Was it when the student-run newspaper was cancelled because the students criticized the school’s policies three years ago? Was it when those same students were told that the newspaper was cut for “financial reasons,” although it only cost printing materials? Was it when a few students were told by the school’s “Spiritual Life Advisor” that they were “Pharisees” for desiring Chapel services that went beyond the edification level of a kindergarten Sunday school class? Or did the college cease to be a college even sooner than that? 

The purpose of a college is to educate and broaden the minds of its students’ by the presentation of the ideas and institutions that have made human civilization. Perhaps I should have put the matter more clearly. The purpose of a college is to educate. It is not to curtail the rights of free speech. It is not to show intolerance towards other viewpoints. It is to educate. 

Outside of a few professors who held tight to their Christian vision of the school as a school of Christian education, Crichton ceased to educate long ago. 

It ceased to be a college. 

Sincerely, 

Shelby Johnson 

A Junior at Crichton 

PS. If the matter is unclear, then the college certainly ceased to be a college when it announced yesterday that it would not honor any of its student’s academic scholarships after this semester. Does anyone know a good lawyer?

Mad Woman

I think I'm just mad today, in the slow steam coming out of my ears way, rather than the lightning striking way. It's a quiet, burning in the embers kind of anger.

I pride myself on having sarcastic and charming and witty updates on my blog, but that side of me isn't revealing itself at the moment. So maybe if I say what I'm mad about, my normal cheeriness will be restored. I'm all for a little catharsis.

1.) I'm mad that my darn Spanish textbook isn't here yet.

2.) I'm mad that my school is closing. This branches out into many other small facets of anger that make up the ugly whole of my madness, namely:

-- I'm mad that I might not get my scholarship.

-- I'm mad that my professors are being canned.

-- I'm mad at the fact that while I really, really, really want to go to Union, I don't exactly have twenty thousand dollars laying around.

-- I'm mad that I might end up at U of M trying to take college algebra, which is like an invitation to failure for me, during my senior year.

-- I'm mad that I'm probably never going to see some of my friends again after this semester.

-- I'm mad at the administration people for being general all around wastes of skin. Just offer yourself up as living skin grafts for burn victims and call it good, why don't you?

-- I'm mad that I'm once again fighting off a bit of resentment toward my dad for being a selfish jerk and leaving us all to do things ourselves, and then I'm mad at myself for feeling that way, because I actually don't mind doing things myself and I know it's better for me in the long run. So, I guess I'm mad that my usual contentment with my lot is so easily disturbed.

-- I'm mad that God can't put up a billboard or burning bush or a plane dragging a banner or a still small voice or something to let me in on His plan so that I can do what He wants me to, and then I'm mad because I know that He does this because He trusts me, and that I have to live up to that.

-- I'm mad that this post now contains several run-on sentences.

3.) I'm mad that some of my piano students flaked out on me, causing me to lose around ninety dollars this month just because they couldn't get off their butts and get to my house for a stinking thirty minute lesson.

4.) I'm mad that I've done all the laundry for today. Now there's nothing left for me to angry wash.

5.) I'm mad that I've let myself get this mad. 

I'm stopping now. Hopefully things will look better in a few hours.

Dear Crichton...

So today was...ahem....interesting. 

All was well in my world, initially. I was getting ready to head out to school when I noticed my friend Scribbles' status on facebook, saying that she was looking for a school to which she could transfer. I was immediately concerned and wrote her, asking if everything was okay. I thought maybe there was an illness in the family or financial difficulties in her life, and I wanted to see if I could help somehow. 

Imagine my surprise when she informs me that my school is closing after this semester. 

Yes, you read that correctly. Closing. 

The day program is finite, vamoose, gone beyond recall. It was decided on Monday, the faculty and staff was informed last night, and it was announced at chapel this morning to the students, with the students being told that all scholarships would not be honored after this semester. 

Need I remind you folks that I'm a second semester junior? Need I remind you that most schools do not accept senior transfers? And need I further remind you that the Powers or Dolts That Be decided to announce all this three days after the add/drop period for the U of M?

Katie was not a happy camper. That's probably the biggest understatement to have yet been uttered since the day that somebody said that Goliath was largely misunderstood; in actuality, he was a warm and fuzzy chap that slept with teddy bears and drank pina coladas with his lunches of brie and caviar and spent his weekends helping old ladies cross the street without getting mauled by all the other brutish Philistines. 

So anyway, I've composed a letter, by which I mean that I'm writing it off the top of my head, of what I would say to the Board and our venerable and nasty excuse for a president if I had the chance. 

Dear Crichton Board, President, and all those that it may concern,

First of all, I would like to thank you for the three years I've had at Crichton College. I know without a shadow of a doubt that Crichton was the best place for me to be, where God wanted me to be. I am not remotely the same person I was when I first came to Crichton, and while not all of my experiences there have been positive, they have all worked to make me into a better person and a better Christian. The professors are absolutely the best in the business, bar none. I cannot praise them enough. They are more than my mentors -- they're my friends.

That being said, I'm very, very, justifiably angry at the events that occurred today for several reasons. It puts me into a bad situation, personally. You didn't give me enough warning to transfer to another school, and most schools don't accept senior transfers. Where does that leave me? In the toilet, my friends. I'm either stuck hoping that the University of Memphis or Union lets me in, or that I can somehow finish out my degree with night courses at the shell of what Crichton used to be. Yes, spending my last year of college at a ghost ship with all my professors gone is exactly the kind of experience I need.

But as much as I hate what you've done to me, I hate even more what you've done to my school. It was such a special place, and now it's gone forever. Crichton used to be a haven of learning, of friendship, and even, God forbid, true diversity. This diversity was the kind that wasn't forced, but was natural and easy because you honestly didn't care about the color of peoples' skin so long as they were lovers of knowledge. It was when you started questioning that easy friendship that the racial tension broke out like a poison ivy rash. I had never in my life experienced prejudice until my sophomore year of college, and I'm white. I was judged on sight because of what I am, for things that I didn't do. How is that fair? How is that any different from the segregation of the 1960's? It isn't; you just inflamed racial tensions until you couldn't see what you were doing to your students. Instead of building them up and teaching them of higher things, you tore them down. You failed us all.

That's only one issue.

Why, may I ask, if the school was in such bad financial straits, were four new flat screen TVs and a new Foosball table put in the student center, rather than, I don't know, fixing the stupid leaking roof? As my friend Aubrey said, it was like offering a cancer patient a face lift.

Why were foreign athletes brought in at huge cost to the school, to a liberal arts school, and the Honors program allowed to die? What did we need with a huge athletic program? It's not like we were going to play during March Madness. When, of course, said athletes failed out in two semesters anyway, despite the required, unpaid hours of tutoring that the Honors students were forced to give them. Why were good professors dismissed and replaced with substandard and racist adjuncts? 

These problems didn't happen all at once. They've been allowed to build and fester for several years now, and have gone largely unchecked. I believe that the downhill tumble started when the school stopped being a school and became a badly organized, financially unsound mission. Your focus became the inner city of Memphis rather than maintaining the highest standards of education that had previously been your ideal. 

And my favorite part of this whole Carthage-esque disaster, salt sewn in the fields and all, is that we tried to tell you. I took every survey that ever came through my email account, and I told you my concerns. But you didn't trust us, or simply didn't take the time to listen to us. The school's administration acted like the students were a problem, rather than the reason that we were there in the first place. I never felt like my complaints and comments were addressed in a respectful manner by anyone other than the professors. We were just flies in the daily ointment, a nuisance instead of an individual seeking self-improvement. As an example of this treatment of the students, I guess I can refer to the financial aid office as a symbol of all that was wrong. The financial aid office was affectionately referred to as "Hell" by many of us, due to its disorganized nature and its tendency to cause students to slip into its depths, never to see the light of day again. We tried to tell you in every way possible, but we were not heard. We were ignored, and I have no qualms in saying I told you so now.

Shame on you. 

Shame on you for forcing us into this position. 

Shame on you for taking all the joy out of my senior year. 

Shame on you for sending countless people into financial difficulty because they won't have jobs. 

Shame on you for not listening to your students and to God, and for losing sight of the mission statement of our school. 

Shame on you for taking away something I love because you couldn't be responsible with what you had been given. 

Shame. 

Signed,

Kaitlin Johnson

Two Sides of a Coin

Okay, this is from one of my favorite books and comedians, Dave Barry. I was talking to a friend of mine, and this routine popped into my head, and it was too good to not share. I'll put something up of my own musing later today. Until then, have fun laughing over this! That's the great part of comedy -- it's based essentially on truth. Hence the hysterical irony of it!

Me

Dave Barry's Guide to Guys!

Let's say a guy named Roger is attracted to a woman named Elaine. He asks her out to a movie; she accepts; they have a pretty good time. A few nights later he asks her out to dinner, and again they enjoy themselves. They continue to see each other regularly, and after a while neither one of them is seeing anybody else.

And then, one evening when they're driving home, a thought occurs to Elaine, and, without really thinking, she says it aloud: ''Do you realize that, as of tonight, we've been seeing each other for exactly six months?''

And then there is silence in the car. 

To Elaine, it seems like a very loud silence. She thinks to herself: Geez, I wonder if it bothers him that I said that. Maybe he's been feeling confined by our relationship; maybe he thinks I'm trying to push him into some kind of obligation that he doesn't want, or isn't sure of.

And Roger is thinking: Gosh. Six months.

And Elaine is thinking: But, hey, I'm not so sure I want this kind of relationship, either. Sometimes I wish I had a little more space, so I'd have time to think about whether I really want us to keep going the way we are, moving steadily toward . . . I mean, where are we going? Are we just going to keep seeing each other at this level of intimacy? Are we heading toward marriage? Toward children? Toward a lifetime together? Am I ready for that level of commitment? Do I really even know this person?

And Roger is thinking: . . . so that means it was . . . let's see . . ...February when we started going out, which was right after I had the car at the dealer's, which means . . . lemme check the odometer . . . Whoa! I am way overdue for an oil change here.

And Elaine is thinking: He's upset. I can see it on his face. Maybe I'm reading this completely wrong. Maybe he wants more from our relationship, more intimacy, more commitment; maybe he has sensed -- even before I sensed it -- that I was feeling some reservations. Yes, I bet that's it. That's why he's so reluctant to say anything about his own feelings. He's afraid of being rejected.

And Roger is thinking: And I'm gonna have them look at the transmission again. I don't care what those morons say, it's still not shifting right. And they'd better not try to blame it on the cold weather this time. What cold weather? It's 87 degrees out, and this thing is shifting like a goddamn garbage truck, and I paid those incompetent thieves $600.

And Elaine is thinking: He's angry. And I don't blame him. I'd be angry, too. God, I feel so guilty, putting him through this, but I can't help the way I feel. I'm just not sure.

And Roger is thinking: They'll probably say it's only a 90-day warranty. That's exactly what they're gonna say, the scumballs.

And Elaine is thinking: Maybe I'm just too idealistic, waiting for a knight to come riding up on his white horse, when I'm sitting right next to a perfectly good person, a person I enjoy being with, a person I truly do care about, a person who seems to truly care about me. A person who is in pain because of myself-centered, schoolgirl romantic fantasy.

And Roger is thinking: Warranty? They want a warranty? I'll give them a goddamn warranty. I'll take their warranty and stick it right up their ...

''Roger,'' Elaine says aloud.''What?'' says Roger, startled.

''Please don't torture yourself like this,'' she says, her eyes beginning to brim with tears. ''Maybe I should never have . . Oh God, I feel so ...'' (She breaks down, sobbing.)

''What?'' says Roger.

''I'm such a fool,'' Elaine sobs. ''I mean, I know there's no knight. I really know that. It's silly. There's no knight, and there's no horse.'''

'There's no horse?'' says Roger.

''You think I'm a fool, don't you?'' Elaine says.

''No!'' says Roger, glad to finally know the correct answer.

''It's just that . . . It's that I . . . I need some time,'' Elaine says.

(There is a 15-second pause while Roger, thinking as fast as he can, tries to come up with a safe response. Finally he comes up with one that he thinks might work.) "Yes,'' he says.

(Elaine, deeply moved, touches his hand.)''Oh, Roger, do you really feel that way?'' she says.

''What way?'' says Roger.

''That way about time,'' says Elaine.

''Oh,'' says Roger. ''Yes.'' (Elaine turns to face him and gazes deeply into his eyes, causing him to become very nervous about what she might say next, especially if it involves a horse.

(At last she speaks.)

''Thank you, Roger,'' she says. 

''Thank you,'' says Roger.

Then he takes her home, and she lies on her bed, a conflicted, tortured soul, and weeps until dawn, whereas when Roger gets back to his place, he opens a bag of Doritos, turns on the TV, and immediately becomes deeply involved in a rerun of a tennis match between two Czechoslovakians he never heard of. A tiny voice in the far recesses of his mind tells him that something major was going on back there in the car, but he is pretty sure there is no way he would ever understand what, and so he figures it's better if he doesn't think about it. (This is also Roger's policy regarding world hunger.)

The next day Elaine will call her closest friend, or perhaps two of them, and they will talk about this situation for six straight hours. In painstaking detail, they will analyze everything she said and everything he said, going over it time and time again, exploring every word, expression, and gesture for nuances of meaning, considering every possible ramification. They will continue to discuss this subject, off and on, for weeks, maybe months, never reaching any definite conclusions, but never getting bored with it, either.

Meanwhile, Roger, while playing racquetball one day with a mutual friend of his and Elaine's, will pause just before serving, frown, and say: ''Norm, did Elaine ever own a horse?''

Dave Barry's Guide to Guys

Reverse Psychology

At eight o'clock this morning, my highly excitable sister burst into my room, scaring me to death and waking me up from a dream involving Angel. I was highly perturbed with her, until she screeched something like, "Look outside!" This kind of thing doesn't happen in this household unless there's a very good reason, and said very good reason is always one thing:

Snow. 

I yanked over my curtain, and low and behold, the snow was falling thickly. The flakes were absolutely enormous, and were no doubt of mint flavoring, hopefully with some dark chocolate thrown in there. I pulled up the window shade, snuggled back into my 800 thread count Egyptian cotton brown comforter (life is too short to sleep on a tarp, that's my philosophy) and proceeded to spend the next half hour watching it come down. 

I'd seen on the weather forecast yesterday that they were calling for flurries, but I didn't actually believe it was going to happen. I'm starting to think that God is a God of reverse psychology. Every other time the weather people have called for snow, I've prayed fervently, and nearly hourly, that said blizzard would come to pass. I go to sleep anxiously, and wake up and push back my curtains, only to be disappointed by brown barrenness. It would figure that the snow would come on the one time I didn't pray for it, didn't expect it, and wasn't eagerly awaiting its arrival! What's up with that? Maybe that same formula will work in other areas of my life. "Please, God, let me fail this test....I really want to fail this test...."

Of Towels and Vampires

If I were to choose a way to die, death by static electricity is only two rungs higher than being pecked to death by a baby ostrich. Or drowned in chocolate pudding...no, wait. That's a good way to die.

 Mom bought a bunch of new towels since our green ones are old and raggedy and stringy, so I washed them last night and set about folding this morning. (After, of course, I took great delight in throwing away the old green ones that were in the pile to be washed. Why wash something that's destined for the dump? Besides, saves me some work, and why save something for tomorrow what you can get someone else to do for you today?) New towels, apparently, are pissed about being new and being washed and sent through a hot dryer, so they suppress a little bit of their own brand of vengeance. The first time I got shocked, I thought nothing of it. The electricity was slowly heightened, though, and progressively going up on the pain meter. By the time I was done, my hair was sticking out. Yee, cute. Shelby eventually took pity on me and came to help me, but I felt very slightly as if I were shoving a well meaning pagan into the arena so that I, the Christian, might go free.

Aubrey came over to work on Spanish with me on Saturday night (after we saw Defiance. My advice? Go see it. End of discussion) and by the time we were done, we hyper and loopy. So what did we choose to do to amuse ourselves? Oh, yeah. We starting watching the first season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. 

I know you're laughing. So was I. Despite the fact that the show was created by Joss Whedon, (which probably saved it from being downright laughable instead of merely Elmo-esque silly) the acting of Sarah Michelle Geller was laughing and the creatures were goofy. You've gotta wonder after a while why nobody noticed that the students of Sunnydale High School (*snickers madly*) are dropping like flies with virtually no explanation. Not to mention the principal that got, I don't know, EATEN. Although Armin Shimmerman playing the replacement principal is hysterical. Hello, fascist Quark!

I've heard that the show gets better after the third season, but I really have no interest in watching it after the third season. Why? The reason I'm watching the first season of all would be gone. Here's my reason for watching it:

David Boreanaz. 

The almost ultimate in hotness, only bested by Jensen Ackles and possibly Daniel Craig. Although I must admit, he has Robert Pattinson beat hands down for the whole vampire with a tortured conscience thing. I'm only watching the season for him. If the episode doesn't have Angel, a good episode it is not. Oh, and I won't be watching the second season either, when Angel predictably loses his soul and becomes a soul sucking fiend with the rest of his barbecue fork-ed teeth buddies. So I'll laugh my way through the first season and call it quits. 

Farewell, my friends! I'll be in my room, avoiding my Spanish homework. Toodles!