(Most of) Wisconsin Got it (Mostly) Right

Rhetoricians rejoice (to a degree)! Yesterday, April 1st, we ‘Sconnies went to the polls . . .

and—WOW—did I just refer to myself as a ‘Sconnie? Anywho . . .

. . . [we] went to the polls to, among other things, right a 78 year-old wrong: voters overwhelmingly voted to remove (in part) the partial veto power of the governor. Since 1930, gubernatorial power included the lawful ability to selectively edit proposed spending legislation by removing words, phrases, numbers, and the like then splicing together all that remained to form a new spending bill, even if the new legislation bore no resemblance to the original. For an example, take a look at this. There are many ways to describe such a practice:

falsification
inaccurate alteration
democratic circumvention
unethical omission
adulteration and/or bastardization
rhetorically reprehensible action

‘Round here, it is most often referred to as the “Frankenstein Veto,” and it proved a mighty unpopular practice among voters (71% voted to amend the state constitution to ban the practice).

I am not necessarily opposed to veto power. I’m not even (theoretically) opposed to line-item veto power when it is used to strike down language units in their entirety. Both offer the potential for further deliberation and negotiation between executive and legislative powers, and both possibilities limit the potential for abuses or imbalances of power; however, this business of reconfiguring meaning by systematically deleting, fragmenting, and reorganizing symbols? Bah.

As one who teaches writing and rhetoric, I am relieved that the next time I instruct students about ethical and accurate research practices and language use, about authorship and intellectual probity—and most particularly about the importance of maintaining the integrity of language in quotations—there will be less (and I do emphasize less) of a disjunct between the practices I endorse (or insist upon) and the practices of one of our nation’s most prominent sites for rhetorical engagement.

It is a small victory, as the specific language of the referendum passed yesterday delimits only the scrapbooking together of the fragmented remains following the culling of the governor’s undesired bits of the legislation and not the selective culling itself, but it is victory nonetheless.

MWF, 32, ABD, seeks professional identity . . .

I suppose it’s easy for some: the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker. It starts, really, in college: the use of the standard template,

“Hi. I’m Darcy. I’m a sophomore butchery major.”
“Hello. I’m Nate, a third-semester senior culinary major with an emphasis in fondant.”
“I’m Jamie, a junior candlestick-arts major. Hi.”

Instant identity tag, and it serves an interesting, perhaps important, social-rhetorical function. So when it comes to describing what it is I do—or, given the cultural practice and expectations associated with professional “branding,” who I am—I’m having a bit of a crisis. Well, maybe not crisis, per se, but something. A shift. A reorganization of self-knowledge. A period of adjustment. In the Maslow/Goldstein model, I guess I’m not self-actualized at the moment.

It may be the nature of graduate school, one function of which is to move the individual from student-status to professional-status, that explains my unrest; as a graduate student, I have been at once a student and an instructor. But even that has become more complicated: as a Ph.D. candidate, I’ve completed all my coursework, so I’m a student without a classroom. I’m working on a project that I hope will make at least some meaningful and original contribution to the field–or, rather, to at least one of the multiple fields I’m attempting to negotiate—so I am a student in that I am learning more all the time, Ancora Imparo, but I’m no longer attending classes: that phase of my formal education is complete. My professors feel less like professors, in the traditional sense, and more like colleague/mentors; those who were my classmates are now decisively my colleagues. It is a strange awakening. Not at all unpleasant, but certainly strange.

Then there’s the actual professional practice of teaching. When I teach, and I say this without arrogance, I teach very well. I am invested in my students’ learning because I am invested in my subject. But I don’t think of myself as a teacher. This perplexes people when I say it. Their eyes, under a skeptical, furrowed brow, ask, “but aren’t you planning to be a professor? And aren’t professors teachers?” Well . . . yes. But I don’t think of myself as a teacher. A facilitator, most certainly, but a teacher? It’s hard to explain, but the teaching-learning dynamic is different in higher education; therefore, the role of the instructor is also different. Further, as of this writing I have not been in an instructional role for almost a year; instead, I’ve been serving as a WPA for the program in which I have taught for the last two years. So what does this have to do with my search for a professional identity? Here’s my reasoning:

If teaching is my first love—no, wait. If teaching writing is my first love—but no, that’s not quite right either. Writing is my first love; teaching writing is the maturation of that love. Still, I’m not certain I want to marry my first love. Without it, though, I couldn’t understand the role of a WPA (my new love?); I couldn’t be an advocate for the multiple constituencies—most importantly the students and their instructors—invested in the program, and I wouldn’t understand the policies and practices that inform the culture of the writing program(s) I serve, nor could I grasp the implications of said policies and practices.

Add to all of this that my field is rhetoric, at once unintentionally esoteric and ubiquitous and generally misunderstood; that my scholarly interests and curiosities are about as orderly as the flickering of fireflies over a hayfield in late August; and that, in addition, I still consider myself something of a poet, essayist, Jazz Age Literature scholar, et al., then the process of branding becomes even more complicated: when I try to explain to folks what I do, I am met with the very same skeptical, furrowed brow as referenced above.

So every little pebble I’ve cobbled together to this point in my career reveals nothing, yet, of a cogent professional identity. The artistic, slightly bohemian side of me says, “Oh, how delightfully chaotic,” but the “old-style conservative realist” (Lieven) in me says, “Focus. Get organized. Be precise. You can’t market what you can’t parcel.” Given that it will soon be my turn to commit myself to the academic job market, my old-style conservative realist makes a compelling argument, but this collage is proving difficult to brand.

Congratulations, Amy!

Congratulations Amy!

My cousin recently passed her driver’s test and is now fully licensed. In honor of her success, I offer the following:

Amy, now that you’re licenced to motor, I have a few of my favorite, hard-learned (yes, sadly, all from experience) tips for you. In no particular order (ahem) . . .

1. It’s not usually a good idea to pass tanker trucks . . .
. . . on a two-lane country road
. . . in a no-passing zone
. . . on a curve
. . . when your dad told you not to take your car to school.

2. Those giant concrete planters that you often see in cities, larger towns, on campuses, etc.? Yeah, they tip over and break when you back into them hard enough.

3. If you happen to back over your boyfriend’s aunt’s mailbox, it’s generally a good idea to pull the car off the road, turn off the ignition, and close the door before carrying the broken mailbox, post, and tread-marked mail up the driveway.

4. Always—and this is important—open the garage door before backing out of the garage.

5. When taking a long road-trip with friends, letting your cat ride on the dashboard is . . . complicated (right, Lucy?).

6. When you get pulled over, remember to pull off to the right (not across traffic to the left).

7. Doing 75 in a 25 is rarely a negotiable ticket.

8. If you are ever caught speeding in Michigan with an out-of-state license, be sure to have the cash handy to cover the fine; otherwise, they will take your license on the spot.

9. Sometimes, “Honestly officer: I didn’t realize I was going that fast! It’s just such a beautiful day, and I had good tunes on the radio . . .” actually works.

10. If you happen to find that you’ve managed to place you car on the top of a rather large snow drift (i.e. you need climbing gear to get to your vehicle), a couple of evergreen branches under the tires and the help of a couple of cute frat boys usually does the trick.

11. 7:1 is probably not the best bumper to car ratio (over a three year period).

12. It is unusual, and not particularly recommended, to transport friends in the trunk. Especially tall and/or large friends.

13. Be sure you know how to change the tire: should you ever, say, slide sideways through a field or grassy embankment, it is nice to be able to refuse help from the creepy guy who offers.

14. If after #30 you lose count of how many times you have been pulled over, you might want to rethink your strategy.

15. If you happen to get lost in the general region east of L.A. and the cop you ask for directions laughs at you, find a trucker (again: right, Lucy?).

16. On down the road, when you go on your first outing with your fiance’s mother, you can be sure that backing into another car will make an impression.

17. Rain-X is cool.

18. Should you find it absolutely necessary to, ahem, communicate with another driver in another vehicle, be sure that he or she is not a police officer . . . or sheriff.

19. If you are running late and have to move your roommate’s and/or friend’s car because she a) can’t or b) is being generally uncooperative, try very hard not to lock her keys in her vehicle . . .
. . . while it’s running
. . . and in the middle of the street
. . . accidentally on purpose
. . . at 7 a.m. on a Saturday.

20. If you happen to back someone’s bright red, vintage 1979 Firebird Trans-Am into a pine tree, the best thing to say is “I’m so, so sorry” NOT “See? I told you that you need to cut down that tree!” Contrite is best. Especially if *someone* happens to be your mother.

22. While drag racing off a traffic light in downtown Pittsburgh can be a great way to meet friends, it is generally discouraged.

23. It is great fun to confuse the cop who pulls you over by insisting that you know him from somewhere . . . where could it be? (Bonus tip: be sure he doesn’t know you from a previous traffic stop).

24. It can be a tad awkward when the cop who pulls you over—and who pulled you over last week . . . and about three weeks before that—is a good friend of your mother’s . . . but it is VERY funny when he tells you that you drive like your mother!

25. And finally, remember this rule: “those entering a traffic circle must yield to those already in the traffic circle” AND that this rule does not apply, it seems, to Carmichaels, PA.


Be safe, drive smart, drive defensively, and remember this mantra:

I’m a good driver. I’m a good driver. I’m a good driver.

"Without gerunds, your nightmare would've just recurred."

Lucy (a.k.a. my very own amor socraticus--or, in the incredibly annoying contemporary vernacular, my BFF), who works for the New York Times, sent me this link, and it is just too enjoyable not to pass along for those of you, like me, for whom language is religion.

Little aside: religion though it may be, I would not consider myself blindly devout in my worship and am reminded here of Frost's observation, "You can be a little ungrammatical if you come from the right part of the country." Just sayin' is all.

From the blue semicolon dude to the comments posted by readers (I took the name for this post from my particular favorite), what you will find here is about as enjoyable as a hot, hot, hot Venti, non-fat, sugar-free caramel latte on a cold, cold, COLD Wisconsin morning. Enjoy!


http://gawker.com/358157/nyt-makes-comma-error-inside-semicolon-article

Approaching the WI Primary

In just 20 days, Wisconsin voters will officially enter the 2008 political marathon, and I couldn’t be more befuddled or excited. I must confess, here, that I was a kid who couldn't wait to turn 18 just so I could register to vote, and I am still fired with that same wide-eyed energy when it comes to U.S. politics. As a republican—and, frankly, what feels like the token and oft misunderstood republican in academe—all I can think of is an old fight song that we used to sing to taunt the opposing—or, when awful circumstances warranted, our own—football team:

We’ll take a neck from some ol’ bottle!
We’ll take an arm from some ol’ chair!
We’ll take a leg from some ol’ table!
and from a horse we’ll take some hair [we’ll-take-some-hair].
And then we’ll put them all together
with a little string and glue–oou–ooou!
And we’ll get more action from a gosh-darn dummy
than we’ll ever get from you–oou–ooou!

Ah, to have a Build-A-Candidate Workshop! To make a composite candidate from all the best qualities from the field: a dash of McCain’s record for collaborating across the aisle, a pinch of Romney’s organizational leadership record, a smidgen of Huckabee’s integrity, a nip of Giuliani’s chutzpah and support for the nation’s servicemen and women, and several ladles of Paul’s grasp for the constitution and the (limited) role of the federal government delineated therein—what a project!

Together, these candidates (though Giuliani is now officially out) make an interesting collage, one that communicates a great deal about the complex and somewhat metamorphic identity of the republican party at present (I’ll tackle that topic another time and in another place, perhaps). While the idea of creating the übercandidate selected from the best qualities each has to offer is perhaps a wistful or amusing aside, in truth politics is always—has always been—about the human condition—which is fallible, vulnerable, contradictory, and often inconsistent. It is also precisely what makes it possible to learn, to defend that which must be defended and to eliminate that which is unjust, and to collaborate, deliberate, and negotiate across difference; it is what affords one the ability to hope, to dream. The trouble is, for me, what am I willing to concede to the realm of ‘let’s agree to disagree’ and what positions (and records) among the candidates are, for me, deal-breakers?

At this point in history when we as a people approach such a unique and nearly unprecedented presidential election, and in this precise moment and mood that I write, I am inclined to think that the best hope for our country—the very best possible spur and curb—is to see the parties come together and share the ticket: a republican and a democrat coming together to share the responsibility of leading the country from within the executive branch. I’m not a political scientist, perhaps obviously, and I suspect the implications of such a move could be . . . complex to say the least. But since I can’t use the Build-A-Bear—er, Candidate—approach (and even if such a thing were possible could we as an American constituency ever actually agree as to what qualities were ‘best’ anyway?), it might be interesting, for just a moment, to imagine where together, say, Senators Obama (for whom I have a great deal of respect for his apparent temperance) and McCain could take the country.

Caffeine Wishes and Anesthesia Dreams

You have to appreciate trends in modern medicine: through them I finally got my wish.

Long ago I decided that life would be much simpler if I could just have someone hook me up to an IV of caffeine—I wouldn’t have to slow down to sip. In my pre-op screening, the anesthesiologist asked me about my caffeine consumption. I explained my ‘caffeine layering’ technique: chai in the morning (2-4 cups); ‘energy water’ midmorning; coffee in the afternoon (pro re nata); the occasional espresso in the evening; caffeinated mints throughout. He asked me if I get headaches when I don’t consume. Well, yeah. So he ordered 500 cc of caffeine to be added to my IV. Nice man. My hero.

I thought he was kidding, but soon the nurse came with a little bitty vial of the good stuff. She checked the order, then asked me hold on. I overheard the conversation:

NURSE

500 cc? Is that right?

OTHER NURSE

Yes. That’s what he wrote.

NURSE

Okay. I just wanted to check [pause] because [pause, then whispered] she’s so small.

OTHER NURSE

Yeah. 500 cc. That’s the order. That’s what he wrote. I can check with him again . . .

NURSE

No, no. That’s what he wrote. Okay. Just like to double check.

[end dialogue]


I have such appreciation for modern medicine.

Stapedectomy Revisited

A little less than three years ago—on May 25, 2005 to be precise—I wore a hearing aid in my left ear for the last time.

That moment came thirteen years after the word ‘otosclerosis’ ushered me in, none too gently, to the world of hearing impairment—where audiograms signed with Xs and Os have nothing to do with notes of endearment but mark left- and right- side decible levels on graph after graph, charting peaks and valleys far below the 20dB ‘normal adult threshold’ for hearing.

What I learned in those thirteen years, both about otosclerosis and about myself, could fill a book: cliché aside, it has. And now I am about to be able to complete that book, a collection of non-fiction essays that I began in 2000: now, as I am about to submit my right ear to the same procedure I had on my left in 2005, I can’t help but think about the relationship between the body and the self, the physical and the ethereal, the allegory that is written by our bodies and edited by our consciousness. Too heavy? Well, I guess I’m feeling a little heavy. Funny, but I am more nervous this time around than I was the last. More on that in a moment. For now, a little about otosclerosis, the reason for my hearing loss.

Otosclerosis is a congenital condition affecting the bones of the middle ear (incus, malleus, and stapes) that causes degenerative hearing loss; it is caused by an abnormal growth of spongy bone that prevents the bones from vibrating correctly and carrying sound waves to the inner ear. Surgically, the condition is treatable through a procedure called a stapedectomy: the removal of the stapes, via laser, and its replacement with a small titanium rod. The procedure eliminates the spongy bone and allows for proper movement and conductivity in the middle ear.

The stapedectomy yielded very good, though not perfect, results for me in 2005: though my hearing on that side does not quite break the normal threshold, I have noticed a marked improvement over my preoperative hearing, and I have not, after all, even seen my old hearing aid since I handed it off to my husband just before the surgery.

So why am I more nervous this time? This should be comfortable territory as there are far fewer ‘unknowns’ this time around, having been here before. But that’s just it: last time, the condition of my middle ear came as a surprise to my otolaryngologist—he’d not seen such significant bone growth in someone so young. In addition to the expected spongy bone, a ‘bony shelf’ had formed over all of the bones, making them difficult to access. This explains why my onset was so early in life: I was 16 when I was first diagnosed, while onset for otosclerosis usually doesn’t occur until folks are in their late 20s or early 30s at least. To complicate matters more, I apparently have a malformed incus, a deep ear canal, and a prominent facial nerve (which, for those who are not necessarily anatomy enthusiasts, courses right through the middle ear), making the logistics of working in my middle ear even more challenging. What should have been a laser procedure required a drill. What was already a difficult maneuver became an even greater challenge. And Dr. P– expects to find the same thing when he goes into my ear on Wednesday. But, no—that’ not really what is making me feel a little uncertain.

The fact is that last time I was fully hearing impaired going in to the surgery; I had nothing to lose, really. If the procedure worked, then great; if it didn’t —and there’s always the risk—I still had another functioning, if aided, ear. There was safety in that status quo offered by my right. Though the left is now improved, I know that it is still weak. The potential for having little to no improvement in my right—or losing my hearing in that ear all together—is unsettling. To go through all of this only to be no better off is a discouraging potentiality.

Then, of course, is the potential for facial paralysis; loss of feeling, function, and control; inability to produce or control tear production; loss of muscle control, speech impairment, taste disruption, et al., et al. As a person who makes her living, at least in part, by speaking, this is not an appealing prospect. As a woman who at least tries to look reasonably put together, superficial though such objectives may be, well . . . . And as a person who loves to sing (though what results in not fit for normally-functioning human ears), and smile, and laugh, and chase her children around making a ‘lizard face,’ entertaining the possibility of exchanging hearing impairment for facial impairment nearly makes me want to rethink my ante.

And finally, in what is perhaps the ultimate example of illogical though compelling human impulses, I am worried about being able to hear.

Let me explain: I was very angry when I was first diagnosed with otosclerosis. I refused to wear my hearing aids. Chaos and disappointment ensued. I was obstinate. It was a long, complex battle. Eventually, I healed. I learned. And through it all, quietly and without a particular, discrete, discernable turning point, I adopted a new cultural identity. I belonged to a discrete community. I was ‘hearing impaired.’ The hearing loss became a significant part of my identity; who might I be without having that experience? Who will I be, in Pound’s words, “after the sound” (Canto XIII)?

Absurd though it may seem, my most significant concern is not that the surgery won’t work, but that it will.