There's a Bat in My Potty

That's not a clever euphemism.

My husband came upstairs today and warned, "Don't run downstairs to use the bathroom any time soon. Someone has taken residence there. In the toilet, actually."

My first guess was a snake. Nope.

A bat.
A fat bat.
A fat bat clinging to the inside wall of the toilet, just at the water's edge.

So, uh . . . right. This is an ongoing theme; the potty is just a new twist. I'll explain, but first, a little bat--, er, backstory, presented in a series of posts. The first three installments are posted below; more to come.

Bear with me: I'll get there.

About a Bat, Episode I

We bought our house shortly after my son was born; in fact, he was this tiny, one-month-old package that everyone enjoyed passing around during the closing, his ‘big sister’ keeping her protective, two-year old eye on him at all times. The house we were buying was the original home built in our town, the oldest part having been constructed in the late 1860s. Multiple additions later, it had taken on a somewhat quirky, very charming architectural ethos—an open and bright floor plan with something of a bygone feel. It was simple, with a lot of possibility: a project, but not an overwhelming one. Just about right for our little family.

It also had a great history: it had been owned by the same family since the ‘40s, and several generations had grown up in the house. Though sentimental, I liked the idea that happy family memories had been made there—I’m also quite confident that the previous owners’ children, as executors of the property on behalf of their late father, were pleased that they were selling to a young family: the promise of a new era of memories clearly delighted them.

Their father was a strong Wisconsin farmer, and he kept this house as his ‘house in town’ and, later, his retirement property; his farm, a considerably larger property, was just north of Madison. We learned that he was beloved in the community and that he always had impressive gardens in the expansive backyard—expansive, considering the house is smack in the middle of town, just a block off Main Street. When we entered our house for the first time—as its owners—their family had left for ours a note and a picture of their Dad, the farmer. It was a simple and kind gesture, the handing-off of the baton, that really captures the character of our home. But I digress . . .

As we were unpacking, my husband, Kurt, came up from the basement and announced, with some excitement, that he had been surprised by a bat. He reasoned that the house had been empty for two years, so it wasn’t entirely unreasonable to find a bat in the basement. I was not, however, cheered. So after digging through a few boxes and outfitting himself in heavy gloves, his Carhartt jacket, and a baseball cap—and armed with two large fishing nets—the mighty humane hunter headed downstairs. After much searching, he never again saw that bat and concluded that it must have left the way it came in. After all, there was no evidence that the little guy had taken up permanent residence (and by that I mean there was no guano that we could see). Fair enough.

About a Bat, Episode II

Later that summer, once we were all moved in and reasonably settled, Kurt and I were enjoying the quiet late August evening. The kids were tucked in, sweetly snoozing their new rooms. The baby monitor was quiet save for the occasional, soft sigh. We were enjoying a rare ‘date,’ the kind that parents of young children often have: a shared bottle of wine and a few hours of quiet conversation. Simple. It was a nice evening, but as the sun began to set, we noticed a lot of activity in the sky. Bats . . . and in no small number.

Now, just east of our house—across the back alley and on the neighboring block—the spire of a beautiful old Catholic church, built about the same time as our house, reaches high above the roofline, so we thought perhaps—in this idyllic little house, in an idyllic little town, on an idyllic little summer night—that this impressive population of bats had taken up residence in that idyllic church belfry. But then Kurt heard it: a sound that I could not hear, but that he described as squeaking and chatter. He looked up, then slowly nudged me. There, in the oldest part of the house, where the steep pitch of the roof met the old chimney, a bat squeezed out of a small gap. It seemed to have materialized from the stone itself; the gap was so small, nearly indiscernible. Soon, another. Then another. Hesitantly, we walked over to the chimney, eyes fixed. Methodically, like the deployment of military aircraft, bat after bat squeezed out of the opening, dropped down, and made a long, graceful sweep above our heads, into the sky. They were dancing over our yard, the low trees, our neighbor’s sheds, dipping and maneuvering their way through the evening air. We focused on the chimney. Another. Then another. It was like an idyllic little clown car. Eighty-seven. Eighty-eight. Eighty-nine . . .

My husband and I just looked at each other, and continued to count.

About a Bat, Episode III

That Fall, after we were sure all the bats had left their nest, I steadied the bottom of a very tall ladder as Kurt climbed up and examined the nearly imperceptible gap, filling any potential gaps in the stone with expanding foam. We had spent quite a bit of time researching bats since that evening in August, and while we certainly didn’t mind having a few good bats around, patrolling the evening sky, we weren’t too keen on having them share our indoor living space. See, we couldn’t tell whether the bats had come from the old chimney alone—there were just so many of them—or if they had taken up residence in the old attic, which was no longer in use. So up the ladder went Kurt, battling mild acrophobia, can of expanding foam at the ready.

By this point I had made my imagination crawl with absurd but nonetheless unsettling scenarios of bats flying about the kids’ rooms, hanging from the crib rails, becoming tangled in my daughter’s hair as she slept, getting mixed up in the baskets of stuffed animals. I made myself sick with the thought of guano contaminating onesies and baby blankets. So Kurt, having completed his outdoor assessment, shimmied through the teeny access panel in the ceiling of our son’s closet—and I have to pause here, because the image of a 6’2” man shimmying through a two square foot opening in the ceiling certainly deserves pause—in order to examine the old attic, armed with his can of expanding foam. Problem solved.

Another "Must Read"

In honor of its release, the Chronicle of Higher Education today profiled Kevin Roose's book The Unlikely Disciple: A Sinner’s Semester at America’s Holiest University.

Having not yet read the book, I can only comment on what is in the Chronicle article; still, in the small sampling offered here, I admire Roose's treatment of Liberty (and its constituents) as a cultural study--this is precisely what makes me so excited about our system of higher education in the U.S.: lacking a federal curriculum and constitutional mandate for higher ed, but held accountable by the regional accreditation bodies, we have a wonderfully diverse system of HE that allows for discrete institutional cultures to thrive. There's real value in that.

The U.S. system of higher education certainly faces numerous, significant challenges, but it is encouraging to focus, from time to time, on its unique strengths. Discrete institutional climates and cultures that draw and serve unique populations are, to my mind, one of the greatest strengths of our system.

The hope, of course, is that through the accreditation process, students in all these discrete educational enclaves have something of a shared mission-- a common, grounding principle--that values such cultural diversity and promotes temperance, critical reflection, and respect such that they acquire a foundation for negotiation and deliberation . . . the rhetorical core of our democracy. It is here that the relationship between higher ed and a thriving, stable democracy is revealed most clearly . . .

ah, but I have now digressed into the realm of my dissertation. More on that to come, folks.

"No, We Straight": Obama Racially Bilingual (from NPR's Talk of the Nation)

Audio for this story will be available at approx. 6:00 p.m. ET

Talk of the Nation, March 10, 2009 · In January, then President-elect Barack Obama visited Ben's Chili Bowl in Washington, D.C. When the cashier asked him if he wanted his change, he replied "Nah, we straight." [more]

I have been posting the link to this program far and wide, and I encourage anyone who enjoys language to take a few moments to listen. Dawn Turner Trice's brilliant and engaging discussion of adapting one's speech to best reach a specific audience--while still being 'true' or genuine--goes right to the heart of rhetoric.

I am particularly fond of Turner Trice's discussion about negotiating multiple discourse communities and understanding what grounds the nuances and vernaculars--and the dangers of mimesis when the speaker fails to understand the culture from which a particlar idiom, cadence, figure, or syntax emerges. As one caller to the program pointed out, the attempt at mimesis can be cause for embarassment or controversy: she recalled a moment from the recent campaign in which Mike Huckabee's use of the term "bling bling" and his awkard "Who let the dogs out-woof" chaser when attempting to align himself with an African-American community. Of course, examples like these from our political characters participating in their favorite sport--pandering--abound. Recall that Hillary Clinton's surprising and affected dialect when quoting a gospel hymn in a Southern Black church sparked a national debate.

So how far is too far? Well, I suppose it depends on the speaker's level of rhetorical awareness and the audience's acceptance or repudiation of the speaker's use of language, or how well the speaker understands and employs the nuances and conventions of a vernacular or dialect. Of course, I am reminded here of Shirley Brice Heath's treatment of language as a cultural artifact, as a 'culture carrier' inseparable from its community of origin. Her treatment of language, much like Turner Trice's, still awes me.

Anyway, Turner Trice really captured my attention on today's Talk of the Nation . As one who was raised at the crossroads of two rather colorful vernaculars, two distinct dialects-- Yinz know, where Pittsburgese n'at meets that good ol' West-by-Gosh-Virgina Mountaineer twang--and who spent three years living in 'da U.P., eh' and the last five living in 'Sconnie (that's prononced "scaah-nee," in case y'all didn't know), I have an appreciation for Turner Trice's commentary that goes beyond a professional interest in rhetoric.

All this to say, "A great broadcast." Fascinating, enjoyable, and highly recommended. Listen and enjoy!

Athletics and Higher Education

A while ago, while enrolled in an upper-level (i.e. 900-level) economics in higher education course, one of my peers offered the following during discussion:

Can we all just stop pretending that athletics has anything at all to do with education?

While the majority of those in class nodded in approval, a few of us—maybe about a quarter of the class—looked as though we had been collectively slapped. I suspect the number of us who were taken aback by her sardonic remark was falsely inflated: many of those enrolled in the course worked in the Athletics Department and/or were working on an advanced degree in Athletic Administration.

Her comments, and the positive, vigorous nodding enacted by most in the class, is not at all uncommon in academe. Not long ago, over lunch, I sidestepped an argument with a friend’s husband about the benefits of strong athletics programs to the wider institution. I have fielded criticism by some colleagues and advisers for permitting my students to write about sports and sports-related topics. I have seen the polite response by some in my field who clearly question the relevance of my interest in language and culture related to athletics (You wrote a paper about trash-talking? Oh, that’s . . . unique), the subtext of which is, “It may be interesting, but it’s idiosyncratic and not publishable.” And I have read and heard countless comments like the one following an article in today’s Chronicle discussing Texas’ proposed 10% Admission plan and its implications for the Texas football programs:

“Forget the impact on academics. I guess if you want to influence Texans you need to go after athletics. Nice…” (B. Smythe).

I have also been following this critique of values as played out in the media in recent weeks vis-à-vis the revelation that USC’s football coach Pete Carroll’s salary is four times that of USC’s president, Steven Sample. This particular case, echoing the tone of B.Smythe’s comment, is held up as the emblem of our culture’s skewed priorities. While there may be some truth in such a critique—$4.4 million is an astounding yearly salary—Carroll’s deal is, in fact, a compensation package. “USC Football” is a powerful brand, and Carroll is the guardian of the brand. To that end, Carroll’s salary is much less ridiculous, to my mind, than the exorbitant compensation offered Hollywood actors and actresses.

It seems to me that the bad vibes we scholars generate related to our athletic programs does a disservice to the complexity of the institution and of higher education as a multifaceted project. Too many of us in academe disparage athletics; we set up unhelpful dichotomies between athletics and education that are unhelpful at best—and are, at worst, damaging. It is understandable: it is difficult, especially in the humanities, to see ‘fat cat’ pockets of our campus thrive while we, in preparation for teaching our classes, jog room-to-room looking for chalk.

Still, I am cautious, even critical, of privileging curriculum as the only significant heuristic in Higher Education. With everything we understand about multiple intelligence, liberal education and its beneficial externalities, and the importance of cocurricular participation in learning, I am hesitant to turn away from the value of athletics, and I will defend athletics as steadfastly as I do the arts. As noted in the Chronicle’s coverage of the Texas admissions case

This year 81 percent of the freshmen at the flagship campus here are “top-10-percenters,” and next year the proportion is expected to rise to 86 percent. That trend, Austin officials say, gives them practically no flexibility to admit musicians, scientists, and athletes who don’t make it into the top tier for automatic admission.

The fact is that strong athletics programs are an instrumental part of institutional viability. At my behemoth BigTen institution, for example, I know that of all our athletics programs, only one turns a profit (football); one breaks even (men’s basketball), and—because as a non-profit enterprise all proceeds must be reinvested in our institutional programs—all other athletic programs, including those required and protected by Title IX, are funded by the capital generated through concessions, television deals, Bowl appearances, licensing, and the like. Athletics, in this way, is a self-sustaining industry within the broader context of the academy. Situated thus, athletics provides opportunities for student access and name recognition that transcends esoteric academic communities (i.e. “the ivory tower”); in short, strong athletics programs blur the boundaries between the academy and the non-academic community and open the academy to a much broader constituency.

At smaller, non-profit institutions, the benefits of strong athletics programs and the closely-coupled relationship between athletics and academics are more conspicuous. Adrian College in Michigan, for example, expanded their athletics programs in the face of markedly declining enrollments. In just a short amount of time, their risk paid off: as reported in the 19 September 2008 Chronicle

The additional revenue from higher enrollment has enabled Adrian to make significant improvements in academic buildings and in faculty hiring. As its operating budget has grown to $43-million from $23-million since 2005, the college has modernized two academic buildings, expanded the campus dining hall, and hired 16 tenure-track faculty members.

There is so much more to say, of course, but I am probably already pushing the boundaries of this medium with such a long post. So I'll close with this: as an advocate for athletics in higher ed, I am also cognizant of the fact that balance here is key. Still, my fellow doctoral student’s remark resonates with me, and I would argue that athletics—for the role it plays--is as important to higher education as the academic programs, people, and facilities that define it.

I have not yet abandoned thee . . .

It occurred to me this weekend that I did not post a single item the entire month of February, so today I've taken a moment to at least make some changes 'round here, a little redecoration, if you will. I'd grown a little tired of the old look, and watching my students design and work with their blogs inspired me to play a little. It's not much, but it's a start . . . one step closer to posting something that at least attempts to be substantive.

The pictures I used in the redesign are all from 'back home.' The one on the left is of the sun setting on 'the hollow,' taken at my family's home in Pennsylvania. The right, also from the Gideon homestead, is of a wooden fence along the road that leads to 'the knob.' The central image, which I retained from my old blog design, I took while walking down a country road behind my Grandma and Papa's house. Just over the hill from their home, West Virginia meets Pennsylvania; as the road I was walking is not by any means a main thoroughfare (and, really, barely a road), no official sign marks the state line--but some industrious someone fashioned a sign out of a piece of scrap metal and black electrical tape. This state line marker is much better than the big, fancy ones on the highway, and it is, to my mind, a perfect emblem of where I'm from.

If it were possible to peek inside a person to see what dwells within, this is just about perfectly what you'd see in me.

More soon . . .