Music Man: A Recap

I'm in mourning for the loss of my obsession. I still feel the need to run lifts and scenes, even though the show closed earlier this week. This was such an incredible theater experience - I had to write it all down. I'm sure as I remember more things the list will expand, but this is what I have for now. . .

Things I Will Miss. . .

1. My wonderful costumes! Clothes these days just aren’t the same. . . plus, I looked awesome. I really felt beautiful.
2. The thrill of singing some of the most wonderful and iconic songs in musical theater, and knowing when they sounded nice.
3. Walking around everywhere in my bloomers. On stage, off stage, grocery stores, restaurants. . .
4. My Paroo family. Mama calling me ‘darlin’ and both Winthrops giving me hugs to wish me luck.
5. Making the audience laugh when I was being sly or a bit snarky.
6. Hearing such genuine compliments after the show from generous audiences.
7. Working so hard to make Marian and Harold a couple you want to root for – and then succeeding.
8. Shooting marshmallows out of my mouth.
9. Everything about Marian the Librarian (especially that vest. . . )
10. Late night (mostly focused) quiet scene rehearsals
11. My power ranger boots
12. Lift-a-palooza
13. Wearing the completed footbridge dress for the first time. It was the first moment when I really thought "Wow. I look like Marian."
14. Watching characters come to life on stage – like the first time Rob went off on the school board.
15. The challenge of developing a difficult character so completely from one end of the spectrum to the other.
16. Waking up in the morning with my cheek stuck to my pillow because of tape residue – because it reminded me that I’d been in a show the night before, and it was satisfying
17. Rehearsing Shipoopi and bonding with the cast
18. The cast carwash, in which I managed to thoroughly soak many people, and get soaked by just as many
19. The fireflies and smoke during the footbridge – I never got to really see it, but it looked like it looked beautiful
20. Symbols and metaphors happening on accident (the color of the handkerchief, people carrying books around that trusted me from the beginning).
21. Lindsay’s snort during Pick-a-Little, and the look on her face/Chris’ face during their solo of Shipoopi
22. Craig's sound jokes and obnoxious kissing noises from the booth.
23. Being able to yell or say mean things without having to repent afterwards ;). (I'm mostly joking!)

Things I Won’t Miss. . .

1. Non-scripted drama.
2. Mic tape giving me hives behind my ear.
3. Stage make-up making my skin break out.
4. Fake eyelashes.
5. The debate over my stage make-up in general and the great eyebrow debacle of 2010
6. The door to the Paroo house
7. “Like two junior high kids in the back of a movie theater!”
8. The "Did you really kiss my daddy in the show or was it pretend?" question. . . Yeesh!
9. Hairspray. (The product. Not the musical.)

Things I Want to Remember. . .

1. Seeing my name on the call back list for Marian and shaking for about a half an hour afterwards from excitement
2. How over the moon excited I was when I got the call from the director telling me that I got the part – and adding again to that excitement when I found out that Greg got the part, because I had so much fun with him at call backs (good thing that continued. . . )
3. The moment in call backs when I thought “. . . I might actually be able to get this part!”
4. The first YOPTC night
5. The huge feeling of accomplishment I had when I finally committed to all parts of Marian’s journey. It was an emotional triumph for me, and a healing experience.
6. Lawrence Welk-ing the footbridge ("Never a peaceful moment in the -" "Yeaaaah!")
7. The director pulling Greg and me aside after the final show and telling us that he was afraid that he would only ever compare us to Robert Preston and Shirley Jones, but that now he will compare all other performances of Harold and Marian to us. That was a huge honor.
8. "I couldn't kiss him! My acting skills are NOT that good." (Re: The "other" Music Man.)
9. Steve Black telling me with such enthusiasm that we had nailed the transformation of both characters. His high opinion of the show was, at least for me, the moment I really knew I had succeeded!
10. Scores of people telling us that they had never understood why Marian loved Harold before they saw our version and knowing that the months of hard work had really, honestly paid off the way we hoped it would.
11. Greg’s wife telling me that her favorite song in the show was “Till There Was You” – pretty much the last thing I ever expected, but it was a huge compliment! She also said she likes my voice better than Shirley Jones – which is also a great thing to hear, even if I think she’s crazy.
12. The night I was offered my job. I thought I was in some kind of trouble. I was - but a completely different kind of trouble than I thought.
13. Walking into Maple Mountain’s theater for our first rehearsal there and thinking “ooooh boy. . .”
14. Showing off Shipoopi for the first time to the ensemble – mainly because I didn’t have many scenes at all with ensemble in them and it was my first chance to really show off what I could do! The reaction was pretty fun.
15. Slapping Greg at rehearsal (mostly on accident).
16. The “Sadder But Wiser (Budwiser?) Girl” dance at tech rehearsal.
17. Lady in the Tramp hair at intermission
18. The development of the hummingbird fascination.
19. Being so giddy over finally rehearsing the library that I couldn’t stop from grinning at how much fun it was to perform. That was always my favorite scene in the movie, and performing it every night was one of the greatest thrills ever.
20. Realizing how completely the Lord loves me to lead me to the show – not just because playing Marian was fun, but because it changed my life in nearly every way: with friendship, with opportunity, and with some major personal growth.
21. The emotion of closing night – feeling everything so much more keenly than I had in any other rehearsal or show because I knew it would end.
22. Watching the pick-a-little ladies can-can during the entr’acte music before the curtain opened. So, so entertaining!
23. Watching Lindsay sing “Columbia, Gem of the Ocean” off stage so that I could laugh all I wanted without being seen.
24. Larisa’s excellent “Baaalllzac!” during the pick-a-little reprise
25. The joke we played on Lindsay. We texted her during notes on one of the two days that she wasn't at rehearsal and told her that she might want to get to rehearsal fast because our director had just told someone else to start memorizing her lines. We thought that she would roll her eyes and laugh, but instead she panicked and burst into tears and her whole family started planning a siege on the school. Whoops! It was really funny, though - in spite of how mean it was! Fortunately she's still talking to all of us.
26. “I thought so.”
27. The blessing of being surrounded by priesthood holders when I needed them.
28. The care that so many people took to make sure that I was taken care of – feeding me and bringing me food and helping me in so many ways on and off stage. It was comforting to know that people cared about me enough to notice when I needed help or encouragement.
29. How hard it all was – I’ve never had to work so hard at making a part good. It took rehearsing nearly every day for three and a half months to feel worthy of playing Marian. I only missed one rehearsal during all of that time, and I came every other day whether I was scheduled to or not because I wanted to get it right. The responsibility and pressure of being a lead in such an iconic show. It was so, so worth the work – but it was hard.
30. How fun it all was – to take such pleasure in saying lines I’d known for years from watching the film, to talk for hours about character development and how to take Harold and Marian from one place to the next in a way that is uplifting and praiseworthy, to have all the fun perks of being a lead – riding on the float in the parade, kids giving me hugs after the show, custom made costumes and a quiet dressing room, interviews and pictures in the paper – it was definitely a selfish bit of fun to have that kind of attention!

Seeing the Good

"It is a terrible injustice to be falsely accused." - Anne of Green Gables

I'm going to toot my own horn for a second and seem very contradictory. You'll have to forgive me.

One thing I realized about myself several years ago is that, on the whole, I'm pretty good at assuming the best in other people. Those of you who know me well might look through the files of your brain and find moments where I haven't been that way, but ultimately I think that, as a person, I'm generally good at assuming the best in others and assuming that they see the best in me.

This means that it always comes as a bit of a shock when I'm confronted by accusations of poor behavior on my part, whether those accusations are valid or not.

I had such an experience recently and it's brought to mind lots of random thoughts that I'm going to attempt to string together here. . .

The "grass is always greener" mentality can be quite frustrating when you know the grass isn't greener, it's just a different kind of grass. Being cast as a lead in this play has been, then, both a wonderful experience and an extremely stressful one. I have been around the theater business long enough to know that everyone experiences the stage differently. When you're in the ensemble, particularly if there are long breaks between backstage and stage time, it's a great time for you to play games and socialize. I knew before getting this part that as a lead you'd have lots less of that time because so much of your time would be spent on stage. What I hadn't realized was exactly how emotionally and physically taxing that can be.

It's true that everyone in the cast is at the theater for the same amount of show time, but I've never been so drained in a show before this one. Staying "on" and being completely in character for two and a half hours is hard. It's a completely different challenge than any other play I've had the chance to participate in. It's been a very welcome challenge, but a difficult one.

What I really didn't understand, though, is how hard it is to walk that fine line between putting on a good performance and being a good friend to everyone in the cast, especially with the part that I have. Marian doesn't socialize much. Nearly all of my time on stage is spent in small group scenes. This means that I haven't had the chance to get to know as many people in the show as well as I normally would in any other position. I noticed after we started rehearsing that people treated me differently because of the role that I had, and I tried to counter that by being as kind and complimentary to people as I could. No one should have an ego built on community theater of all things. I'm just another small fish in a very big and very insignificant pond doing my best to perform where I'm placed. But in spite of all that, people will still interpret distance for arrogance and think that things come easily where they don't. It can be frustrating.

Which brings me to the point of the day: It is easy for humans to criticize what we don't understand and allow ourselves to be annoyed by what we haven't experienced. It is easy for us, then, to back bite and sneer at the success of other people. It is easy for us to imagine that there is a cap on success and that the success of another person is, in some way, inhibiting our own success or potential for success. Instead, we should remember that we are always happier when we are excited for others and supportive of others. Jealousy is a waste of time, and holding a grudge even more so. We should observe before judgement, and give others the benefit of the doubt. I'm of the firm belief that rational people generally act out of good intentions.

So there it is. I feel better after a bit of venting. This ride as Marian Paroo has been rough. It's been a huge challenge for me in the actual performance, but - in some ways - a larger challenge in terms of how I relate to my cast. I hope that they know, as a whole, anyway - how much I appreciate and admire them. I hope that I've been easy to work with and generous in complimenting. If I haven't been as good at that as I would have liked to have been, or as people might have needed me to be, then I hope that there will be a spirit of understanding and forgiveness. After all - we're really all in the same boat.

Good Enough

I am a person of many insecurities. Not that people would always know it by looking at me. I'm told that occasionally my "confidence" is so overwhelming I intimidate people (working on that.) But that confidence isn't always as pure as it might seem. I'll blame it on years of the "fake it until you make it" mentality - or perhaps just better than average acting skills that I possess.

I bring this up because recently I've been faced with the kind of perfect challenge that is at the same time catered to some of my greatest strengths but also leaning on some of my insecurities and weaknesses. This particular challenge calls for me to place said insecurities and strengths in front of large groups of people and hope for the best. I can't really blame God for any of this, seeing as I volunteered for the thing in the first place, but recently I started to feel the pressure kind of getting to me. That nagging "you don't really think you can do this. . . " voice of discouragement that makes me want to quit the whole thing and just avoid the potential for failure at all.

So this is the pep talk I've been giving myself: The devil wants us to hide our talents, even our weaker ones, because weaker ones can become strong ones. Right now my talent might just be good or passable, but the Lord will make up the difference and make it great. The only way this is going to happen is if I stop trying to improve this talent out of some desire for personal acclaim or recognition, and only if I remember where I got the gift in the first place. I also need to remember that my weaknesses make life interesting and give me something to work for - and that as a person, I'm good enough because I am His.

Pep talk over.

Lead Kindly Light

Three years ago, right now, I was sitting in Fitz Park. Fitz Park is a small but happy little place in Keswick, England - one of my favorite towns in the entire world. Keswick is in The Lake District - an area in the North Western part of England known for their, wait for it, lakes - and their untouched countryside, mountains, and the general sense of peace there. I don't know if I could ever live in Keswick permanently - it's a bit too small for a girl who grew up in the suburbs - but it is a place that I will always have a soft spot for. It's a beautiful, remarkable sort of place to just be.

I was in Keswick that time around for my study abroad. On this study abroad, our theme hymn was "Lead Kindly Light", a song that I'd always loved but understood better after actually walking across the moors and having my feet be so literally far from home. Since then it's more or less been my favorite hymn. This morning I turned on my church music playlist on iTunes and "Lead Kindly Light" was the first song to come up. Normally I'd smile and think about how much I like that song and move on with getting ready for church, but I stopped today, thinking instead about how appropriate this song is to my life right now.

Several months ago I decided I was moving. I decided that I was ready to be done with Provo, that I didn't want to do what everyone else does in sticking around Utah forever, that I was tired of living where I am and needed change - that the best way to get it would be by going somewhere entirely different and new. A clean break. I wanted Seattle. I went to visit for a week in April. I went again the next week for a teaching fair. The second I got off the plane - or soon after, anyway, I knew what I'd more or less known and been stubbornly denying the entire time - that it wasn't where the Lord wanted me to be. I had been - like the song said - trying to choose my own path.

So much of that decision was based on how completely miserable I was for nearly all of February and a good portion of March as well. I was feeling suffocated. I was trapped in a place I didn't want to be without very many real friends around. I holed myself away and threw myself into my teaching. A worthwhile thing, perhaps, but the Lord hasn't ever been entirely content with my hermitting. Neither have I, though I might not always have the gumption to fight against that tendency.

What I am meandering around to say, then, is that I realized again this morning that I am glad that the Lord chooses paths for me instead of allowing me to choose them for myself. I have a great capacity to dream and imagine great things, but the Lord has always known better. In the last several weeks, a string of things has happened that I never thought would have, but they are better than I ever would have imagined them to be on my own. I have made dozens of new, positive friends to replace pessimistic ones. I have opportunities lining up in front of my eyes that I never would have found without meeting those same people. I am in the right place at the right time. These blessings have been months in the making - going all the way back to last August when I first told the school that I wanted to help with the play. Going back to being placed at this school in the first place.

I don't know why the Lord has blessed me in this particular way. I think about the ways that other people are blessed and so much of this feels unnecessary and extra. I don't really need to travel as much as I have, do I? I don't really need theater, do I? Aren't there other ways that aren't quite so elaborate? Ways that don't make me feel this happy? Perhaps - but whether that's true or not, today I am feeling decidedly grateful to my Heavenly Father for caring enough for me to guide me to where I am right now. I am overwhelmed.

Theater

Theater has taken over my life.

I knew that it would. It always does. The second I get cast in a show I don't even bother trying to deny the fact that everything (nearly) takes a back seat to making the show good. I obsess over it. I think about it. I re-think about it. It goes on and on because I am determined to never do a half baked job in a show. Music Man is definitely no exception.

It's all got me thinking though - about my entire "career" in theater, what got me to where I am now and why it's all so important to me that I would devote everything I've got for several months at a time to a production. Recently I was asked to write an article about why the arts are important for schools. These are some of the things I've come up with, most of which will be related specifically to the arts with theater, since it is what I know best.

1. This one is a bit cheap, but you can't cheat your way through the arts. If you're a smart enough student, you can cheat your way through many things. I know this. I will proudly admit to being an expert essay fluffer. I can mooch my way through any last minute essay and still do well on it once I've learned how to give a teacher what they want. Any English major worth their salt can do that. I'm sure that such skills translate into other areas of study as well. But you can't do that in the arts. You either know the song or you don't. You have your lines memorized, or you don't. Now, there are levels of perfection, certainly, but you can't cheat off anyone else's work. You have to put the time in yourself.

2. That said, you learn to work as a team, and, if you're smart, learn that the success of the team is better than anything you can do on your own. I've spent years getting cast in the chorus. Many, many years being cast in the background with small showcased moments or a line here or there. Every now and then I've managed to get a lead. All along the way I learned that nine times out of ten I cared more about being in the show and being on stage and doing my best than I did with getting the starring role. People who learn to really care about the arts, people who learn the lesson that they have to teach, will recognize the truth behind the cliche of there being no small parts. The arts - on stage or off - teach the same lesson taught all around the world in religious education that you are both everything and nothing at the same time. The arts are - or should be - a grand lesson in humility and hard work no matter your place.

3. The arts teach you to trust others. One of my favorite quotes comes in the movie Nicholas Nickleby at the very end when the narration says that "family need not be defined by those with whom we share our blood, but those for whom we would give our blood." The best shows - the ones that have meant the most to me - have been ones where life long friendships are built. You have no choice. In a short period of time you have to place yourself at the mercy of total strangers, risking yourself emotionally and physically as you get to know them. For someone like me who is generally very guarded and wary of people I don't know, theater as taught me to trust that other people will do their part, and that they will not let me down because I will do my best not to let them down. The bond of a solid cast is remarkable.

4. The arts teach you how to walk in someone else's shoes. I think one of the reasons that the Lord has blessed me with so many opportunities on stage is because I learn about myself when I play someone else. I learn about my flaws and my strengths - not just in terms of acting or dancing ability, but because making an effort to really understand another way of thinking refines your own. That kind of intense character study and analysis has taught me to be careful about pre-judging others.

5. It's just fun. Heaven knows how much I love to analyze things to death. I could spend the rest of eternity picking apart books and movies and never tire of it, but being on stage gives me the chance to do something just for the thrill of performance. There's something intensely exciting about the accomplishment of seeing a show progress from start to finish. It's fun to put on a great costume and sing your heart out when saying it just wouldn't be good enough. There's a kind of energy that comes when you know the audience is eating out of the palm of your hand, and that they will leave entertained, or changed in some way.

I am in awe, sometimes, when I think about how lucky I have been to have the theater experiences that I have had. Recently, especially, I've been completely overwhelmed at the weight of it all, grateful that the Lord has seen fit to bless me with experiences that bring me such a huge amount of joy.

The Think System?

UPDATED

I'm being haunted.

Backstory:

I don't dream very often. Not in the daydreaming sense - I do that all the time. I mean the actual 'I'm physically asleep and thinking about random things that science can't completely explain' kind of dreaming. But recently something pretty awesome happened to me that has set my previously dull slumber into chaos.

For nearly as long as I can remember I've wanted to play Marian Paroo in The Music Man. We have far too much in common, Marian and I. It seemed like a good fit. But I've never really seen myself as leading lady material, so I didn't really let myself dream too far with that. So when a local theater decided to put on the show I figured I'd audition, put up a decent fight, and get cast in the chorus somewhere, as per usual.

But then something strange happened. I actually got called back for Marian. That in and of itself was a pretty big deal. Something stranger happened when I started to think I could actually get the part as the audition went on. Something out of this world crazy happened when I GOT the part. Wahoo! Cinderella was actually right when she said that dreams could come true. Phew.

So this is where the haunting comes in.

I was called about the part nearly two weeks ago. Our first rehearsal isn't for another five and a half days from now. I'm going crazy. First, it was dreams that I'd imagined the phone call. Then, after the cast list went up, it was dreams about the director changing his mind. When I found out the first rehearsal would be a sing through of the show, I had dreams of losing my voice and sounding like an idiot in front of the rest of the cast, and then I dreamed that the rest of the cast hated and resented me for the rest of the show.

It gets weirder. The show of Music Man has started to mix with other shows I've done recently in my head. (Imagine, if you will, Music Man and Seussical into one production. Trippy.)

The weirdest dream I've had so far, though, was completely hilarious. If you're familiar with Music Man, you know that fast talking salesman Harold Hill is selling a Boy's Band with his brand new revolutionary method called the "Think System". If you think the Minuet in G, you don't have to bother with the notes on an actual instrument. Well, I dreamed that the director of the show decided that the best, most authentic way to produce our version was through the "Think System" and that we were just going to barrel headlong into production of the show and not bother with rehearsal.

!!

In other words, until rehearsals actually start, I'm going to be a little bit nuts. After they start, I'll be a little bit busy. A little bit more than busy. But also a little bit more than happy.

I. Love. Theater.

New dream: I meet Shirley Jones. She is wearing a lovely blue suit. I am wearing nothing but a bath towel (?!!).

Fire Rabbit

The olympics were a big deal in my apartment, and figure skating held the most weight. Not because it's the sport that we like most (though it is definitely my favorite), but because the biggest star this year was a Korean, and I'm living with a Korean. Never underestimate the power of honor and winning one for the team in Asian culture, or at least this Asian's culture, apparently. Our friend made us a traditional dinner and flew her flag and waited like a father outside a delivery room for the Queen of ice skating to take to the rink.

At dinner on the night of this event, we got to talking about the zodiac calendar, and, naturally, all had to look up what we are more specifically.

I was born in the year of the rabbit. Fire rabbit, to be more specific. According to the zodiac, rabbits are creative, compassionate, sensitive, friendly, outgoing, and are decidedly non confrontational. We are supposed to be serene and good at hiding our feelings, and not big risk takers.

There are more specific things you can read about for relationships and health and career and what not, but that's the gist of what most websites will tell you.

I usually kind of roll my eyes at this sort of thing. How is it seriously possible that everyone born in the year of the (insert animal here) will demonstrate those personality traits? Of course it's not possible. Nor do people who do have those traits demonstrate them conclusively or all the time. Humans are more complicated than that.

But I did laugh a bit at how well I feel this describes me. Outgoing but anti social. Creative but lacking in self confidence. Good at hiding true feelings but very expressive. No wonder it's so hard for people to understand me sometimes - I am ridiculously polarized.

(In other news, Newsweek is reporting that 55% of males 18-24 are currently living at home with their parents. No wonder men tell me I'm intimidating. They have no reason to get a backbone if their mother is still paying for their groceries and washing their socks. If that's what I have to look forward to in a marriage, forget it!)

Hello, Seattle

I'm moving.

!!!!

As a kid, I assumed that moving was the sort of thing that adults did. Big people who were married with a couple of kids and lots of stuff. I am neither a big person, nor married. I'm followed around constantly by kids but they are not my own. I do have a fair bit of "stuff" but not enough to fill an entire U-Haul. All the same, though - I'm taking the plunge.

I think that Provo is like a drug for some people. An addiction. A disease. A safety net. It's the place you come, and then the place you stay until you marry and that's when you're allowed to leave. It's a kind of progressional limbo, and I'm a little sick of it.

So I'm out.

I don't want to be the kind of person that leeches around Provo for no reason except I'm not married yet. I'm young. I'm single. But I'm also a completely qualified teacher with options anywhere I want them to be. And in this case, I want them to be in Seattle. So I'm heading to the great unknown.

The funny thing is, as soon as things like this happen, everyone seems to have ideas on whether or not I'm making the right choice. One well meaning extended relative, for example, suggested that I might have better luck finding a job somewhere like Washington DC or Compton.

Compton?!

So, in spite of a few people who have been a little less than encouraging, I've decided that I'll be moving no matter what. And the reason for that choice? Because I know it's where the Lord wants me to be next year. That's the reason. I don't have any great reasoning other than that wonderful little bit of personal confirmation that says a move is right for me. And after the string of help I've received so far, I'm pretty sure that things are going to go just fabulously.

A Romantic Comedy Waiting to Happen

One of the troubles of living in such a homogeneous community is that 23 becomes the new 29. In other words: Provo thinks I'm old. Nearing my expiration date. The dating version of menopausal. Destined to become a cat lady - especially given my obvious lack of extended relationship experience.

This became slightly more apparent to me the other night when some friends of mine were discussing a new roommate who NCMO'd for several hours a few nights ago. NCMOing (or Non Committal Making Out for those of you not well versed in Provoese) is kind of a fad among the rebellious set. It's the kind of thing people wear as a badge of honor. It's also the kind of thing I wouldn't ever consider doing. This, my friends concluded, was because of my aforementioned lack of extended dating experience. "You play it too safe," they say. "Your life is like. . . a romantic comedy just waiting to happen."

Well, that might be true from a certain point of view. I am about to move to a new city on my own and start a new job. That seems to fit. I'm thinking about getting a cat. That works. I'm not unattractive most of the time, but I am enough of the time that there could be some Sandra-Bullock like moments mixed in with the Meg Ryan like ones. It's not a bad set up if I say so myself.

But it does frustrate me when we have conversations about our futures and the conclusion is "oh, we're sure you'll find someone someday, but imagining you with that person is WEIRD."

Excuse me?

What is so strange about the idea of my being in some kind of relationship?! Why is that so awkward? I kind of want to glare at these naysayers and remind them that had the timing or situation been right I could have been married three times over now, thank you very much. My apparent lack of opportunity has not always been as pronounced as it is at the moment with my (almost) utter lack of social life. My pronounced practicality in dealing with relationships does not entirely reflect the girly dreams that I most definitely have, even if I do not choose to gush about them to the world.

So. To those people in my life who find the idea of my having a relationship so utterly repulsive: you can go have your NCMO's or whatever else it is that you do on weekends while I stay home alone watching Road to Avonlea re-runs. I may not have much to encourage dreams in the reality of my life right now, but I'm not about to quit now. I'm not exactly ancient.

Merry Christmas From Randall

It's been forever and a day since I wrote anything. Not just here, but anywhere. I told my students recently that when I'm not a teacher I'm also a writer but lately that's started to feel less and less honest. I haven't written anything really for myself in the essay/story department for ages. I'll consider this repentance.

'Tis the season for strange student gifts. It's something that I've looked forward to for a long time. One of the benefits of being a teacher, I thought, was an influx of cool Christmas giftage this time of year. I watched as other teacher's desks filled up with gift cards and huge bags full of stuff and lotions they don't need. I would glance in my box as I came and left each day, hoping for some surprise tucked away inside of it. I'd watch students come in, checking for signs of wrapping paper.

I got (almost) no dice. Some (very amazing) students brought in some Diet Coke to help keep me awake during class (bless them.) One student brought in an orange (love oranges). I got a mouse pad (?!) for my computer and a little dragon picture frame with a nice quote in it, but that was about it. For days now I've been thinking 'Alright. Don't be ridiculous. You don't really need your students to give you junk to feel validated as a teacher. You don't need lotion and you don't scrapbook and you don't want to take their money.' But there was a very selfish little pit in my conscience that wanted to puff out a lower lip and say "but I like gift cards!"

Here's the best part of the story, though. All selfishness and wishful thinking aside, one thing did happen that made me laugh. One (female) student brought in some kind of homemade treat that I thoroughly enjoyed yesterday while traveling home when I took a look at the tag attached to said bag of treats. "Merry Christmas From Randall".

Who the heck is Randall?

Ah, the joys of re-gifting.

(I'll just have to build them up big time for my birthday?)

Locked Out

I've been having some issues with the managers of my apartment. Last year everything was just peachy. We got along. We were buddies. We had a water heater break, and got it replaced within twenty four hours. We made suggestions for repairs and they were considered respectfully and often honored. Things were good.

Then new people came in and old people moved out and now we don't get on so well. I was charged a ridiculous amount for a cleaning check that I did do. We were told that someone came in to clean our apartment for us, but that was a complete lie. I was treated like a petulant child and grew very annoyed at said managers. You'll have to forgive me: in the five years I've lived in BYU housing I have never once failed a cleaning check or turned in rent late. Ever. So this was especially irksome, even though after this year I won't be in BYU housing and it won't matter.

But, ah, revenge is occasionally sweet.

Recently we had a new lock installed on our door. One of the fancy-shmancy key pad-like ones. Ours has a little key pad and a knob that you manually turn that will lock or unlock the place. Apparently it's for increased security. And, if that's what they're going for, then it works, since most of the time you can't unlock the darn thing. Something inside the mechanismals of the keypad doesn't catch the lock. Very frustrating.

We called our managers about this the day the thing was installed. They sent someone to fix it. They blamed the locksmith. We called the locksmith. They came, and blamed it on the door. We called the managers again. They came and blamed it on the locksmith. They said they would call the locksmith.

Essentially, both teams have washed their hands of us, and we still can't get in.

So another problem crops up: our vacuum breaks. They come to collect said broken vacuum to "fix" it. Several days later, they call and complain to us that they tried to return the vacuum but could not get in our apartment because they couldn't unlock the darn thing.

We did not feel bad.

We then left a message with them in return expressing our sorrow that they, too, had not been able to open the darn door. We then expressed our concern that they wouldn't be able to get into our apartment for our soon to be returning cleaning check season.

Ooooh, how I adore irony. Especially when it is at the expense of people who deserve to be on the bad end of it.

I believe

This is going to be a very different type of blog post than I normally do. Normally I like to write about the weird or strange things going on in my life, or write about discussions I've had with people that I thought were particularly good, or generally just have a good time. I haven't talked all that much about my faith or my religion. Not that this post is going to be a downer, it's just spurned on by something not that great.

Last night I was watching TV, getting cookies made to send to my brother on his mission and half-heartedly grading papers when I got a message on Facebook (of all places) from an old friend telling me that one of our mutual friends from high school had killed herself on Tuesday. I think I should be clear that, for the most part, the telling of the information in that particular way without any preamble or titling the message "bad news" or something almost took me by more surprise than the message did. What's more, I've lost touch with both of these people since I left home, so I don't feel as though I was personally responsible or feel like I'm in any huge emotional breakdown mode. What it has done, though, is brought back many memories of when my uncle killed himself nearly ten years ago.

It's also brought back memories of how horrible my junior high and high school years would have been if not for this wonderful group of friends who pulled me through. This particular girl was always happy. She had a beautiful smile and a wonderful sense of humor. She welcomed me in without question. Unlike so many other people, I rarely heard her join in with joking about others or backbiting. She was gracious and kind. In recent years, I know she'd been suffering with a lot of depression. As I said before, I don't know how long this went on - and I definitely hadn't imagined it to be so extreme that death would feel like the best option - but I know that she's found a release from that pain.

The culture of my church can be very secretive when it comes to "skeletons in the closet". I'm not entirely sure of why this is, but I've experienced it in my own family and seen it in others. Someone struggles with something that isn't "kosher". It's alright to struggle with certain things, but more embarrassing to struggle with others. I think that depression is one of those "others" - I don't think many members of the church recognize it as legitimate suffering. I think many people assume that if a person would just pray more, or get a blessing that life would just come up roses again. That feeling sad or lonely is only something that can be spurred on by sinful behavior. That my uncle and this dear friend are wrong and have no hope for recovery.

I can't believe that. I won't believe that. I've felt it. Depression runs in my family and I have been there. Not to the extreme of my uncle, but there are days when I feel as though I am suffocating under some invisible weight. Days when I would rather close the door to my room and be alone than see anyone. Days when I get angry about little things that don't matter. I don't know why the Lord made me this way, but He did. The wonderful thing, though, is that He's also given me the wonderful gift of faith.

I want to be clear when I say that what I'm getting at is in no way supposed to lead to the assumption that my friend was not doing these things. I would have a hard time believing that of her. All I am saying is that for me, when things get hard, my first reaction is always to turn to the Lord. Always. Thanks to the example of my parents who trained me so well, I turn to the gospel when I need help, and I find answers that are sent with peace and reassurance, even if the answer is only to endure a little longer before things get better again.

I love my faith. I can't imagine life being livable without it. I am amazed and humbled at the knowledge that I have a Savior who would die for me and a Father in Heaven who loves me and knows me enough to have given me the life that I have. I know that after I die I will be with Him, and with the rest of my family (and friends) forever - and that is the best feeling in the world, even when everything else seems wrong.

Is that a euphemism?

Euphemism: (n) the substitution of an agreeable or inoffensive expression for one that may offend or suggest something unpleasant.

Spotted in student writing this week -

"Bella walked down the stairs during her wedding. They cut the cake, left on the honeymoon, and sailed to the island called Isle Esme, and yeah. . . Bella got hurt. (Edward) made her breakfast."

Snort.

"Miss Newman, I have a question!"

For those of you who may not have known, I started teaching school two weeks ago. It is exhausting for more than one reason. The hours alone are hard because I have never, ever, been a morning person, and I hate going to bed early. I have still found, thus far, that it is something that I mostly enjoy. It is a job that allows me a certain degree of freedom. I get to talk about books all day, which is great. I get to organize and color code and, most importantly, I get the chance to help (hopefully) some students believe a little more in themselves than they would have if they hadn't been in my class. It's frightening and exciting and fun and obnoxious and any number of things all in one day. But, like I said, I mostly like it.

There is one thing that tends to frustrate me more than other things, though, and that is the repetition. The school I am working at was shortsighted enough not to give their students planners. I don't understand this. When I was in school we were given planners every year starting in 5th or 6th grade so that we could learn to write down our assignments. It's no wonder, really, that so many of my students forget to turn things in: they have no where to write it down.

Even so, I do what I can to remind them. We have certain due dates that happen every week. We have a vocabulary test every Thursday. They have a reading log due every Friday. I keep both of these due dates on the board all week in red so that they are seen. We repeat these due dates before they leave class.

We do this repetition with lots of things. Papers I hand out. Worksheets. Procedures. We repeat over and over again because there is always someone spacing out or not paying attention.

And yet there are still questions about things we've reviewed. "Wait, what am I supposed to do with this worksheet?"/"We had a reading log due today?! You never told me! I never got one of those logs!" The impatient part of me wants to take that student to the board and make them point out where I write down assignments every day so that they can see it. I want to tell them that it is not my job to give them worksheets whenever they miss them, but theirs. I want to start charging a dime for every worksheet I have to re-give.

But then that little voice in my head that sounds like Liam Neeson says "Joni. . . how often do I have to repeat things for you?" And then, feeling both guilty and humbled, I repeat directions again because it is not fair of me to be impatient with my poor, overwhelmed brood after only a few weeks of new responsibility. They will learn to take directions better, and I will learn to give them more efficiently. And in the mean time, I will learn to take directions better myself.

(Small side note: I have also started an anonymous teacher blog that I update somewhat more frequently than this one. If you are interested in reading said anonymous blog and promise not to give me away so that I don't get sued and all that jazz, let me know, and I would be happy to send you the link.)

In touch with their inner Oprah

On the flight home from England I had a plethora of time at my fingertips in which to watch some of the greatest movies currently off market including the latest Dragon Ball Z and Duplicity. Our plane was older and didn't have the handy TV on the back of the other person's seat feature so I had little say in the matter. The only movie I had even the slightest amount of interest in was He's Just Not That Into You, a movie that was funny at times, disturbing in others, and overall rather insulting to single women as every woman in the movie - EVERY woman - was pathetic and desperate and stupid.

It's something that's kind of bothered me ever since. I've realized that one of the biggest problems of being an imaginative female who likes to read is that every literary hero - or nearly every literary hero - that I "fell in love with" growing up (or heroes that my friends love) - were written by a woman.

Think about it.

Darcy.
Rochester.
(That Vampire)
Gilbert.
Thornton.
Heathcliffe.
Brandon.

Heck, even Harry Potter could probably go on that list to an extent. All the men who are held up in modern woman-dom were penned by women. And re-penned by women, because, let's face it, that kind of speech perfection is not obtained in one editing.

And the more I think about it, the more dangerous it feels. Or, at least, the more potentially dangerous it feels. Take, for example, the following links:

Normal Mormon Husband is a favorite blogger of mine, and he wrote this post a while ago about how he's decided that women are obsessed with (That Vampire) because he is, in fact, a woman. Debate this joke as you will, but when I stumbled upon the response these girls had in a "That Vampire" lexicon, I started to get more than a little concerned. These girls defend this fictional character as though their lives depended on it. They speak about him not just out of literary admiration, but out of a kind of obsession that borders on something that seems rather unhealthy - at least to me. (For example: "lmao that was entertaining, but not entirely accurate…i would just like to point out that bella notices consistently throughout Twilight that Edward does not talk like a normal teenager; you wanna know why??? BECAUSE HE WAS BORN IN 1901!!! of course his vocabulary is more refined than your average male! he is almost a century old, and he was born in a time when men WERE generally more “refined”…tsk tsk tsk, this man needs to do his research!!!")

Granted, this is coming from the girl who has admittedly read Harry Potter and Anne of Green Gables more times than I am years old (by a lot) - but I would like to think that I do know the difference between fiction and reality - between fun trivia and not letting "dreams" get in the way of "reality."

I guess, then, that this post is almost the antithesis to my previous post: dreams (or dream men) are all fine and good, but I think the female population would do well to remember that carefully constructed and edited men in breeches no longer exist, and may not have ever existed. It is not fair to the "less-fair sex" to expect the unexpectable.

It reminds me of a scene from an episode of Road to Avonlea in which the town has been half taken over with obsession over a Valentine's dance at the hotel. Background: Boy named Gus asks girl named Felicity. Felicity says 'yes of course'. Boy named Arthur also asks Felicity. Felicity says she's already going with someone else, but thank you very much, and proceeds to be happy about two men fighting over her. New girl named Suzette moves temporarily into the hotel and causes a bit of a stir because she falls for Gus.

About half way through the episode, Gus shows up to see Felicity at home and to apologize for something. Felicity brings up Suzette's flirting with Gus. Gus says "Well, she may be a lot prettier than you, Felicity, but that doesn't matter to me!"

Felicity slams the door in his face.

In the background you hear Felicity's mother say "Felicity - if you slam the door on every boy who puts his foot in his mouth, you're going to need iron hinges."

I guess, then, my point is this: I wonder at how many girls (or boys) have built up ideals for themselves that don't exist, and end up passing by perfectly good opportunities because they are too besotted with something fictional. I don't think it's fair for either side to expect perfection in their companion. I would certainly hope that, if I ever say something stupid (I know, dream big,) or don't look my best, or make a mistake, that my guy won't think less of me, any more than I hope that I would do the same for him. It's all a matter of perspective and patience - recognizing that sometimes our dreams should be altered to fit reality - and coming to the realization that, in the end, reality is often better then some kind of sterile, fantastical dream.

"A Full-fledged Schoolma'am."

This week supplied me with two things I never thought would actually happen. The first is that my keys have, for the first time since I actually got a key, outnumbered the key chains I have. I have five keys now and only four key chains. What is frightening about those keys makes up the second thing I never thought would happen: I have keys to a school, the school alarm system, and my own classroom.

What the heck is this?! When did I grow up enough to have keys to a school?!

I feel very much like Wendy in Peter Pan at the end of Act One when Peter has just been wounded and the two of them are stuck on Marooner's Rock. Peter looks at Wendy and says "Do you think you can fly without me?" Wendy's instant reaction is "No! I'm just a beginner!"

Only the funny thing in this case is that, for the most part, and probably out of naivety, I do feel ready to teach on my own. It's that growing up thing I'm not ready to do yet. I like my Peter Pan fantasies, thank you very much.

I also feel very much like Anne right before she goes to college. She has a conversation with Gilbert about the various "well meaning" individuals she's come across in the days before they leave, each of whom have bits of advice for her, generally leaning toward "Oh, you're so cute and young and innocent. Have fun watching your dreams shatter!"

Well, Anne, welcome to the club. In the last few months I have had a plethora of well meaning people kindly tell me under no uncertain terms that my first year of teaching will involve nothing but shattered ideals, late nights, devil children, and patches of missing hair on my scalp. Each time this happens, there is generally a good deal of "knowing smiles" in which I can practically hear the individual(s) saying things in their heads like 'oh, she's so cute, I wish I were that young and innocent.'

Frankly I'm sick of it.

I GET it. I get that entering the "big girl world", particularly in my line of work, involves a certain amount of disillusionment and reality checking, but how is that any different from any other job? I don't want the pity of everyone in the world when I say with pride that I am a teacher. Nor do I think that "reality" is as bad as people keep claiming it to be. Why must "dreams" always be intangible and "reality" always be based on the lowest most miserable parts of life that we all dread? (And for that matter, since when do the last four years of my life not constitute as "real" because they didn't involve working full time?)

So take that, naysayers. I like my life, thank you very much. And what's more, I don't intend to hate teaching. I also don't intend to give up on dreaming. I'd be as good as dead if I forgot to dream every once in a while.

The Adventures of Gary, Programme Seller/Photo Police

Once upon a time in a far off place called England, in a small town called London, in a theatre called the Criterion, there was a show being performed. This show required that ushers kindly direct people to take their seats. These ushers were also granted the notable task of selling programmes to their patrons for a mere £8 a book. This lovely, shiny book gave information on the cast and supplied a number of ads and photos that made the £8 suddenly seem like a waste of money, but it was the job of the ushers to ensure that those £8 were made and pocketed and no refunds given.

Most ushers did their job faithfully. But Gary was not satisfied with his job. Not quite. There had to be more he could do for the theatre, he thought. Yes, making the theatre money was important. The show could not go on without it! But Gary knew that the theatre was sacred. That the proper respect must be shown. He took it upon himself, then, to do what he could to preserve the sanctity of the lovely pink cushioned theatre.

So, dressed in his purple shirted uniform with his nicely shaggy hair, Gary would turn on his flash radar every evening and, at the slightest irregularity in light, rush to the offender and demand that the camera be put immediately away.

On one evening, however, Gary met his match. Gary met an individual not only practiced in taking pictures without flash, but also excited about the prospect of taking a picture of Gary to put on her blog to include with her story that she had entitled "The Adventures of Gary, Programme Seller/Photo Police" already in her head. She envisioned dozens of pictures of Gary leaping, flying over seats to put his hand in front of cameras. Abandoning his post by the door to soar over guests to teach them a lesson about nice buildings. Images of Gary's annoyed face as he saw a flash go off on the balcony above or the floor below, to which he had no access. It would be beautiful. Glorious. Hilarious. People would laugh.

But alas, the camera battery ran out, thus leading the offensive would be picture taker to decide that Gary was in fact Super Gary and had the ability to suck the life out of any person in the room who would go behind his back and commit such a misdeed while on his watch.

Gary, I solemnly swear never to cross you again. Or attempt to cross you.

(Dirty, smoky place that it is, I can't wait to leave it. . . )

My overall assessment is summed up quite nicely by Fanny Thornton of North and South fame. Parts of Dublin were lovely, and other parts reminded me quite nicely that it is a city to be enjoyed by smokers, drinkers, and "loose women" so to speak. Nice little virginal Mormon women enjoy Dublin in a way that is unlike the way that most other people enjoy Dublin. It was a very nice city that I don't miss is all. If/when I go back to Ireland, I think I'll make time for some of the other cities as well.

The saga that is getting to Edinburgh would take several pages to do justice to, so I'll fill you in on the most important points and let you fill in the blanks:

1. If you book a ticket for the 19th of July, you won't be able to fly on the 9th (Asenath may or may not have been left behind in Dublin overnight. No worries, she's here now.)
2. If you put your hair up with bobby pins, you set off metal detectors and have to be searched (me.)
3. If you put your hair up with bobby pins and you set of metal detectors and have to be searched, then you will probably also lose your ticket in the process.
4. If you lose your ticket, then walk up and down the terminal, go to the bathroom, and continue walking up and down the terminal, then you will probably return to your chair only to feel said ticket slide down your jacket arm (. . . still not sure how that happened)

Point?: We're all in Edinburgh now and excited to go explore the city. With any luck, nothing else will happen and we'll all make it safely to Keswick tomorrow.

"Umm. . . hi?"

Here's a quick funny story for the day.

Today was the "We've got to see everything we can!" day and involved a plethora of museums and busses and picture taking sessions. There are many gems of entertainment value to be had in these experiences (re: posing with the Oscar Wilde statue), but my favorite happened at the IMMA (Irish Museum of Modern Art.)

We were just about to leave. I was still wandering down the hallway when Asenath decided she needed the toilet. I decided I'd go too a few seconds after she went in, just because public loos are kind of a rare thing in this part of the world. It's all about foresight. So I go in. I see two stalls and know that she must be in one of them, right? So I say "hiiiii." And go into my stall.

She doesn't say anything.

I think "she must not have known it was me, whatever," and finish my business. By the time I'm done, she's already outside talking with Shannon who is laughing.

"Asenath came out of the bathroom and said 'so this weird person came in and said hiiiiii to me while I was in the bathroom'."

Shannon looks at her and says, "Asenath, that was Joni."

So now whenever something strange happens, someone says 'hiiiii'.

Maybe you had to be there?

Today's message is brought to you from the Emerald Isle

That's right. I made it. I'm not dead, I'm not drunk, and (although I'm certainly jet lagged), I haven't been dumb enough to get myself arrested or pulled over. Unlike the man in the car near Christ Church Cathedral who was pulled over by a couple of Policemen on horses. Most amazing thing I've seen in my life. Suddenly my career as a teacher seemed even less exciting. What is the noble calling of teaching youth compared with the excitement of a high speed chase on horseback?!

It's good to be back. I'm not competant enough at the moment to write anything incredibly philosophical, so I'm just going to say that every time I remember something I love about this part of the world I get a little more giddy. "Fruit corners! I forgot about those! We have to get one!!" "Oh, I forgot all about black currant juice." Little things. Mostly related to food.

We spent most of the day walking around to keep ourselves from falling prey to sleep too early. Thus far we've done well. I am proud of us. Lots of walking reminds me of the last trip which is good and sore feet remind me even more of the last trip which isn't quite as good but still ok. The hostel is cramped but friendly enough. Other than not having to pay for internet here, nothing much seems to have changed in the method of traveling.

Tomorrow's plan is booked: Try to make it through two or three museums, go to Trinity College and see the Book of Kells, find out what the "Newman House" looks like, go look at the famine monument and Dublin Castle and, after that's all done, go pub hopping at Temple Bar and listen to some live music.

My general reaction to Dublin itself is fairly positive. It's kind of ecclectic as a city. I can't figure it out. I don't think it's a city I would want to live in, just visit. Parts of it are clean and "classic" as far as European architecture goes. Other parts are distinctly square and kind of retro. And there are so many people. They're everywhere. Thank heaven the driving part of our trip is going to be in Oxford and not here - Oxford doesn't scare me nearly as much.

Fast fact for the day: One of the walls in Christ Church is off by 18 centimeters (almost half a meter) because of a structural flaw. It's kind of funny to look at it and go "oh, that's a nice cathedral, it looks like most of the other cathedrals I've been in", and then look again and go ". . . wait. . . " Pretty funny. I'm not sure how well the pictures I took capture it, but it's been fun.

So there it is. Update number one on the crazy random college trip of a lifetime. We're all fed. We don't have the swine flu. We have a roommate but she's a she and she's Asian so she's been very quiet and clean thus far which is nice. I'd feel bad if some bloke showed up with a bunch of Mormon women to out number him.

I interupt my regular display of Anglophilia to bring you a Patriotic display of affection. . .

. . . for the Muppets and all of their amazingness. Watch. Enjoy. I felt more patriotic at the thought that, if nothing else, I live in a country that provides me with entertainment as amazing as this.

"I'm a damsel, I'm in distress, I can handle it. Have a nice day."

This post will not mean anything to the five or six people who frequent my blog, nor, probably, the random people who come by every once in a while. Therefore, this post is going to be a selfish one. I'm allowed. It's my blog. To quote an old roommate, "I do what I want!"

For almost as long as I can remember I have had a bit of an obsession with Robin Hood. It was that darn FOX and his incredible accent. I couldn't help myself! Even as a strapping young lass of three or four I recognized the power of a good, sexy British accent. So when I found out that the BBC was doing another re-telling of the legend a few years ago I got really excited. Since the cartoon I hadn't ever really seen a version of Robin Hood that I was particularly fond of (re: Kevin Costner's ghastly turn as a very American outlaw.) But this time I had a bit more hope, mainly because Richard Armitage was beyond brilliant in North and South and I was anxious to see him take a turn as the evil Guy of Gisborne.

So I watched. And it was delightful. It was completely ridiculous, of course. Strange camera angles and eyeliner and lines like "You are on probation!" or "I shot the sheriff!"/"No, you shot the deputy." It was a complete joke. It was beyond historically inaccurate. But I didn't really care, because that wasn't the point. It was good hearted fun with fine acting and an under riding theme of good winning out in spite of all odds. David and Goliath at its best and most cheeky.

I looked forward to it every week. For the entire first season I would wait up almost all night while the files downloaded onto my computer because people hadn't quite figured out You Tube yet. By second season I could watch the show almost immediately after it showed up in Britain. It was all that kept me moving during the Fall Semester. I considered it my personal mission to spread the Robin Hood love to all of my friends. We instigated "Robin Hood Thursdays" where a band of England-Happy, Lovesick like girls would get together and eat dinner and rewind that one part over and over again for the sheer pleasure of watching Robin do something cheeky or Marian say something biting (usually both).

At the heart of it all was Marian. If there was one thing I learned while I was watching the show for the first two seasons, it was that even if the show was called Robin Hood, it was really Marian's show. Everything revolved around her. She stole nearly every scene she was in for one simple reason: she represents everything Robin fights for. She is hope, she is determination, she is integrity and honor. Since Marian's introduction into the Robin Hood legend 300 some-odd years ago, the story has been hers. The story simply does not work without her.

And this Marian was particularly wonderful. She was a good balance of strong and weak. She was proactive in helping her community. She was occasionally soft and gentle, occasionally not. She was independent but, in the end, recognized that heroes are not as strong alone as they are when they are united with others who share common goals. She was a damsel occasionally in distress but who was capable of saving herself but also capable of a great deal of love. She was a wonderful role model in a media-world of shallow women who are either in constant need of rescuing or far too harsh to really claim the title of woman at all.

It is, quite frankly, the reason why Arwen gained a larger role in The Lord of the Rings films - Aragorn, like Robin, is charged with a large task (save the world.) But until the task is made personal, until they have a reason to fight that is more specific, neither Robin nor Aragorn can really be heroic. These men need women because it narrows the scope at the same time it expands it - saving the world becomes more than duty, it becomes "I need to save the world because then I can be with _______." Good writers realize this. Lily Potter, anyone? Her sacrifice was not to save the entire wizarding world (though it did), her sacrifice was to save her son (even if it was unintentional.)

So this is where the rub comes in. For some reason, for some wild, great, unknown reason, the writers of this show decided that it would be prudent to run Marian through with a broadsword. They tried to be creative and run the show without her - see what would happen if Robin lost his main squeeze, so to speak. Really, you can almost understand where they're coming from. Retelling the same story over again isn't really worth it unless you add something new to the mix. You have to be a bit unconventional. But there are lines that can't be crossed in that unconventionalism. Killing off the symbol of hope is one of those lines.

The writers of the show could have killed off anyone - and I mean anyone - other than Marian and the show would have survived. They could have run that same sword through ROBIN and the show would have continued without all that much of a hitch.

But all of this has become almost secondary to what I realized recently when I was thinking a bit more about why all of this has bothered me. I think part of it rests in my own desperation to believe that there really are happy endings. I think part of it is in my frustration that even at the time of Marian's death in the show there was no sign of peace with Robin. What sort of message does the show send by killing Marian off after all the addendums she had on when she would actually marry Robin? What kind of message is it to show a dying Robin and a ghost Marian only able to actually find real happiness when they're both dead and can't do anything about the troubles in England which, by the way, don't improve?

More specifically, what kind of message does it send to the girls out there who (cough, like me, cough) are trying to find out what it means to be a strong woman - both firm and kind, both direct but gentle, independent and dependent. It's such a hard balance to find. It bothers me that a family show, a show that appealed to just as many (if not more) women than men would so carelessly and thoughtlessly "murder" not just a physical body but a whole regiment of ideas on womanhood. In a television world where women are belittled and ill-treated, it was nice, for once, to see a truly strong woman portrayed on screen. A woman who really was a good counterpart for Robin.

You see, I don't watch movies or read books because I want to be reminded that sometimes things don't work out and sometimes people don't manage happiness in life or that sometimes people get run through with a broadsword. I watch movies and read books because I want to be reminded that sometimes things do work out. And sometimes people are happy. And sometimes good does win in spite of seemingly insurmountable odds.

So darn you, writers of a formerly wonderful show that lost all of its spark and fun and started taking itself too seriously and managed to kill off everyone (almost literally.) What a sad, horrible commentary in a world that desperately needs to believe in the possibility of heroes again.

"All the scholarships in the world can't make up for the lack of it."

Two posts in as many days? I must be out of school.

The title for the post comes from a scene in Anne of Green Gables when Anne (at the stout age of sixteen) tells Aunt Josephine that she's become too practical for romance. The rather more wise Aunt Jo tells Anne to "save a little room in her life" for romance again.

I say this because of a few experiences I've had recently that have been grading on my nerves. I've just finished my undergrad at the Y and am in the process of getting ready to teach in the fall. It's a stressful and exciting process but I'm looking forward to putting my training into practice and seeing what comes of it.

When I tell people this my general reaction is fairly positive, but every so often I'll come across well meaning people who say pleasant things like "Oh, everyone starts out so idealistic!" and "soon you'll just be saying 'Everyone be quiet!' all the time," or (my favorite), "You'll lose all of those dreams, but you'll do great."

How is that for encouragement? Now, I have grown up around educators. Nearly every (competent) teacher I ever had (starting in about the third grade) has taken the time to tell either me or my mother that I would be a good teacher. When I was four I sat down all of my friends at my own birthday party to read them a story. I've done theater for a long time and I'm used to being in front of an audience. I know how to take criticism in that kind of an environment, and I'm used to adapting my performance. I don't expect to be perfect in my first or fortieth year of teaching, but I certainly don't expect to fall on my backside like all of these well meaning people want to imply. And how sad would it be for me to walk into my classroom on the first day of school next year with absolutely no ambition or drive or excitement at all? I am standing at the beginning of a new adventure, and even though I know I'll make mistakes, I also fully intend to see this through and I don't intend to hate it all the time.

These little incidents of pessimism to me reflect a great deal on the way modern society tries to prepare people for "reality" - a "reality" that is completely separate from hopes and dreams and any other kind of idealism. Reality is dirty and gritty and hard, so suck it up and deal with it, pal, because that's life.

It makes me admire my parents and other family members all the more for maintaining optimism and laughter in spite of struggles. Because why shouldn't we look on the bright side of life? I'm getting tired of these proverbial pats on the back that tell me when I'm older and wiser I'll understand and aren't I cute for still dreaming? I'm tired of those knowing smiles from adults who find my ideas endearing and my goals for life impractical. I'd be as good as dead if I had nothing left to dream about. I'd sure as heck never get married or have kids if all I relied on were statistics and horrible news articles about the recent split of the John and Kate Plus 8 clan - and I'd never be a teacher in the first place if I gave any mind to costs of living compared with average salary.

I guess the haphazard point I'm trying to reach is thank heaven for the gospel. If it weren't for the reassurance of the Lord, there's no way I'd even believe in romance any more. If it weren't for the understanding of the Holy Ghost, I'd be terrified of learning how to be a teacher come August and September. And for all my ignorance and dreaming and cute little fancies, I do know that when I'm caught and don't know what to do, then I have a partner who knows more about my students (and my future spouse) than I do - and that I won't be left without help. So to all of those people who keep trying to drag me down, quit raining on my parade and keep your hands off my head, thank you very much.

"They should have taken the bus."

I saw Up yesterday with my family. That makes time number three, by the way. Pixar is completely brilliant. If you haven't seen it, go, and stop reading now because I make no promises about spoiling things.

The movie is not what I expected it to be. Granted, I don't know what anyone really expects from a movie that was advertised as a film about a guy who hooks up balloons to his house, but the best thing about Pixar films may be the fact that I never know exactly what kind of movie I'm going to get going in. The advertising is a little deceptive.

This is probably never more sharp than for Up, which, for all intents and purposes, isn't really a kids film. Sure, there are some gimmicky moments that are certainly geared for a younger audience, but, on the whole, the film is very adult in nature. Carl begins life as a would-be explorer. His adventures with a blue balloon take him to the somewhat more elaborate "ship" of Ellie - a girl who shares his obsession with explorer Charles Muntz but happens to be more bold in the way she goes about life. The two form a friendship that ends in a marriage and a wonderful life together. In perhaps the most brilliant two minutes of film I have seen in years, the audience views what must be at least forty to fifty years of marriage and the ups and downs they have - setting up house - picnics - wanting to have children but not being able to - planning trips to Paradise Falls that never quite make it because of other expenses, and Ellie's eventual death. In the three times I've seen the film now, I'm still amazed at how quickly the audience goes from laughing hysterically to complete and total silence. Even the youngest kids in the room know that something has shifted thanks to the score (well done, Michael Giacchino.) It's beautiful and heartbreaking - and they never make it to Paradise Falls. Ellie's lifelong dream of setting up house in the middle of no where never quite got fulfilled and Carl is left alone.

It is partly because of this that he gets the idea to balloon his house to Venezuela. The rest of the movie follows as Carl tries desperately to walk his house (literally) over to Paradise Falls along with stow-away Wilderness Explorer Russell who has never been really camping a day in his life but wants to earn his "assisting the elderly" badge. Russell is worthy of a completely different blog post so for now, I'm going to stick to one of my favorite moments in the film - as they're walking through the woods, Russell mentions to Carl that the wilderness is different than he expected, and that he's decided that the boring stuff is what he likes more, because he remembers it. He talks about going to get ice cream with his father and counting cars that go by the shop based on colors.

This relates to a moment in the film when Carl comes across Ellie's "Adventure Book" near the end of the film. At the beginning of the film she shows Carl the "Stuff I'm Going to Do" section - a blank part of the book where she was planning on filling in all her adventures. For almost the entire movie, that little blank section of scrap-book was the source of all of Carl's guilt. But then he actually looks at the pages and sees that Ellie has filled them in with all the "boring" stuff. Eating dinner. Picnics. Reading together. Everything that they did for day to day life. Her adventure - grand as it had begun when she was a kid - had shifted into something more fulfilling.

This idea of adventures being better in the every-day part of life has been on my mind quite a bit lately. I've been thinking about the goals I have for myself and the way that most people see those goals as wasting my education or a chance for a good career. But then I think about my family - I think about the parts of my family that I love the most. I love that my dad goes out of his way, even on Father's Day, to make breakfast for us before church. I love sitting with everyone half piled on the same couch so that we can watch old family videos and eat popcorn together. I even love being piled into the same small van for endless road trips around the country. We don't have the most elaborate family adventures together, but it's never mattered because the trip itself isn't as important as just spending time together.

So to the small child in front of me who proclaimed after Carl and Russell should have taken the bus to avoid the storm that tossed their make-shift hot air balloon house around - you might be right. But where would be the fun in that? And where would be the movie in that? Carl's lesson at the end is a lesson well learned - when we get where we thought we always wanted to be, we end up sitting in our easy chair and saying. . . "now what?" Unless, of course, the journey is seen as an important part of the destination.

Look Harder

This summer has been a busy one (hence the complete lack of posting.) I've been going to class and working almost full time, preparing to go to England next month and thinking about my curriculum for the fall (not too much - the idea of getting ready to teach kind of scares the heck out of me.) Along with all of this, though, I've found the time to read about ten books in the last month. I bought a bunch at a sale the school bookstore was having and - miracle of miracles - all of them have been fantastic. I pulled each book at random off the shelves proving that, for the most part, you can actually judge a book by the quality of the cover!

My most recent read has been The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart. The book is funny and exciting and well crafted - everything in the book is a set up and a pay off by the end. The characters are distinct and each has a different talent that comes in handy at the end. I was very pleasantly surprised by how much I liked it. It's what would have happened if The Series of Unfortunate Events had been written more intelligently and with less pessimism.

Which, actually, brings me quite nicely to my point for the day. After I finished the first book I picked up the sequel. At the beginning of this book, Reynie (the main character) is having a discussion with Mr. Benedict about how frustrating it is to see that the world still has not changed much since their adventures in the previous novel. This is part of the conversation they have:

"Let me ask you: Have you ever had a dream in which, having spied a deadly
snake at your feet, you suddenly begin to see snakes everywhere - suddenly
realize, in fact, that you're surrounded by them?"

Reynie was surprised. "I have had that dream. It's a
nightmare."

"Indeed. And it strikes me as being rather like when a person first
realizes the extent of wickedness in the world. That vision can become
all-consuming - and in a way, it, too, is a nightmare, by which I mean that it
is not quite a proper assessment of the state of things. For someone as
observant as you, Reynie, deadly serpents always catch the eye. But if you
find that serpents are all you see, you may not be looking hard
enough."

The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous
Journey

Trenton Lee Stewart

Paperback Edition, 37-38

I don't know if there's really anything else to add to what Mr. Benedict put so well. I have been trying recently to be better at focusing on the positive parts of my life. I'm trying not to gossip so much or be so quick to join in on negative conversation. It's true that there is no situation we can be in that complaining won't make it worse. The news is really, really good at the complaining thing. It all reminds me of that scene from Newsies where Jack is talking to Davy's family about headlines that make newspapers sell - they need words like "nude", "corpse" . . . etc. The people that complain, those squeaky wheels, get more attention than the wheels that are functioning just fine under the current pressure.

Semi-short post shorter: Always look on the bright side of life.

Literary Elitists are Boneheads

NOTE: You can view an updated version of this essay here.

This post is for catharsis. Catharsis that I desperately need after a semester with a certain professor so dreadful that I have to get one last essay (albeit unsent) to defend myself. Seeing as said professor grades on whether or not she agrees with our opinions. . .

We read nine books this semester. Or rather, we were assigned to read nine books this semester. I read six (which, by the way, is saying something. A-type personalities like me usually fight through all the books but. . . I just couldn't bring myself to do it this time.) One of the books really touched me. I thought it was well written and interesting, the story of the main character reminded me of parts of my own past. So I presented this professor with the idea that I would like to write the response paper for that particular book as a creative non-fiction essay instead. She approved the idea. I turned in my essay a few weeks later with a one page explanation about how much I had enjoyed the book and how I couldn't bring myself to dissect it as I did other books. I included the following quote:

The elitists are such boneheads they think literature exists to be admired. Wrong. Literature exists to create memories so true and important that we allow them to become part of ourselves, shaping our future actions because we remember that once someone we admired did this, and someone we hated and feared did that.

Literature matters only to the degree that it shapes and changes human behavior by making the audience wish to be better because they read it.

It becomes importantly bad only to the degree that it entices the audience to revel in actions and memories that debase the culture that embraces it.

Next to that, questions of how one literary work influences other literary works, or how the manner of writing measures up to the tastes of some elite group are so trivial that you marvel that someone who went to college could ever think they mattered more.

Orson Scott Card, July 29, 2007, "Uncle Orson Reviews Everything"

This is a quote that has stuck with me pretty strongly over the last few years. It's a survival quote, really, as an English major. As someone who really does enjoy analyzing literature, it is important for me to be able to step back and just enjoy reading for the sake of it. After this quote I wrote "This is why I wrote my essay in this particular way. To attempt in some small way to explain why literature is important - not in the way that it can change the world and influence social movements, but in the power it has to change the way that individuals think and behave."

Now, I knew this was going to be somewhat risky. Said professor is, after all, a literary elitist. She is the elite of the elitists. I've never, ever, in my life, ever, met a professor so fully entrenched in literary elitism. So yes. It was a risk. But the book we were reading (Mr. Pip by Lloyd Jones) is all about how the reading of Great Expectations changes a young girl and how Mr. Pip as a character means so much to her. I figured that, in spite of the jab towards people who suffer from a rampant case of English Major's Disease, she was a fair enough person that she would see that the quote was actually supporting the lesson taught by the book she assigned in the first place.

Apparently not.

Today was our final. I got my portfolio back with the top page of this essay (not the rest of the nine pages of it, which, by the way, I strongly suspect she didn't read) and an A- on it. The only comment is to the side of this quote and it reads in part: "Not true. This is a very silly remark. See if you can figure out why?"

So, literary elitist professor in the BYU English department, here is my response:

No. No, I don't think it's a silly remark. In fact, I think the fact that you can't see how important it is that books touch people on an individual level shows how blind you can be as a professor. You are a smart woman. I respect that. But how else are literary movements or social movements supposed to begin if not by individuals who read a book that is so moving and important to them that it changes the way they behave? Card's idea is not "silly" - it is incredibly poignant. I do not want to be the kind of teacher next year and years following that expects my students to read because finding metaphors and symbols is fun. I want my students to read for the pleasure of it. I want them to read because when you cannot travel physically it is a relief to travel mentally. People refer to "escapist" literature as a bad thing, but I don't know if that is always true. There is a place in this world for literary analysis. Heaven knows I enjoy it. But I don't read to analyze sentence structure or symbols. I read because I can't help myself. I read because reading is more a part of me than my own blood. I read because the characters I love have changed me, because they are my friends. If you are narrow minded enough to think otherwise, then it's a mercy you aren't teaching Junior High. They would eat you alive.

Catharsis over. As for you, Mr. Card, if you happen to stumble upon this at any point by some freak chance, this A- was well worth the satisfaction of knowing that I finally managed to touch a nerve in this woman. And you're completely right. Literary elitists are boneheads. And that particular bonehead didn't comment on my writing at all and gave your words an A-.

Susan Boyle, when I jump the pond, I'll vote for you.

Here's one for everyone who thinks the world is against them.  Utterly incredible.  You Tube won't let me embed it, but trust me.  You want to click here.

We read to know we're not alone.

I had an interesting discussion last night about the role of fiction that I don't think I was altogether prepared for.  I don't even remember how the topic came up, but I do remember saying something along the lines of how I hope there are good fiction books in heaven otherwise I don't think I want to go there.  And I mean good fiction.  Fiction that isn't necessarily about people in the church kind of fiction.  I don't want my only option to be Charly by Jack Weyland.  

The person I was having this conversation with didn't seem altogether convinced.  Maybe as a non-English major he just hadn't considered it, which is fine.  From what I can tell in the brief amount of time I spent with him (it was on a double date - he wasn't my date) he seemed pretty well put together and nice enough to laugh when I inadvertently managed to be more sarcastic than I intended to be (which was more often than it probably should have been.  Need to work on that.)  Really, I think this is something that I think about quite a bit simply because so much of my life revolves around reading and fiction.  

So I'd like to elaborate on that now.  I still think there will be fiction in heaven.  And I don't think we're going to be limited to certain kinds of fiction either.  I have this idea that God has sent us to this earth to build and to create and to hone the talents He has given us, and that these talents will be used in the next life as well.  I don't think that seems unreasonable.  Why shouldn't books continue?  I think that books, and fiction books/stories/etc. especially, provide another way for people to learn to become more like the Savior.  Let me explain: 

First of all, the Savior taught in parables.  He taught in parables because the stories could be understood on multiple levels.  In that way, I think, the best fiction of our day can serve the same purpose.  One of my favorite sections of the Doctrine & Covenants is about the apocrypha, where the Lord says that if you read it with the right spirit you will find truth - that not all of it is right, but that you can be uplifted.  There is a connection here in that stories help people to see things from different perspectives that they had not considered before. 

I was also reminded of 1st Nephi 19 when we are instructed to "liken the scriptures unto (ourselves)."  We are told to take these stories and apply them to our own lives.  "This is like when _______ had to do ______, I should try _______ to solve my own problem."  In that way, we are taking stories that are part of our culture and pulling from them lessons we need to know.  This is how other stories work - only in this case the stories are "physically true" as opposed to the stories that were "created truth."  

When it comes down to it, I think it is a matter of the Lord recognizing that people learn in different ways.  All things testify of Christ, but that doesn't mean we all recognize those ways.  We think differently.  We feel the spirit differently.  Those who are adept with science and math (unlike me) can look at the universe and the way it all fits together and know that God is in it.  I don't see those connections.  But I do see those connections in humanity in the books I read.  I learn by reading.  By putting myself into the fictional feet of other people.  Ender Wiggen.  Harry Potter.  Anne Shirley.  Jane Eyre.  Briony Tallis.  Lucy Pevensie.  Tom Sawyer.  Etc.  The lessons I have learned about humanity and perseverance from these good (and occasionally not so good) "people" could not have been created in other ways.  There is a place for storytelling in the universe.  An important place.  And while I admit to a definite bias as an English Teacher, and understand that there are many other ways to learn and to draw closer to the Lord, I will argue until I am blue in the face that fiction is important and that I don't believe it is only a mortal tool of learning.  Heaven wouldn't be much of a heaven at all if there wasn't entertainment.  Theater and music.  Discovery.  Moments of peace and reflection.  The sheer pleasure of sitting on a quiet beach with a book so gripping you simply can't put it down.