My Gorgeous Graduate

Yes she still has that amazingly beautiful hair after more than 2 years of pulling it out over graduate classes, freshman English teaching, and a brilliant (and challenging) thesis.  Annalisa defended her thesis on Thursday and walked for graduation on Friday.  Although her graduation will be official in December, she is now finished with every requirement for her masters degree in English.  Check out the master's hood.

 

I'm sure that by now you all know how absolutely brilliant Annalisa is, but allow me a moment on this occasion to brag just a bit.  Anna has a passion that makes all of her work shine.  She has frequently come home from class so excited about the discussion they just had that she would bring me up to speed so that we could keep talking about it, sometimes for hours.  She can't help but become deeply concerned every semester when she has a student that is on a trajectory toward failing her class.  She consistently takes time to prepare great classes, even when she has other demands on her or could be doing something more enjoyable.

And then there is her thesis.  Rather than have you take my word for it I'll paste a copy of the abstract here (you'll have to talk to her about reading the whole thing).

My thesis proposes a theory of relational identity development in Chicana literature. Gloria Anzaldua's Borderlands/La Frontera offers an interpretation of Chicana identity that is largely based on historical models and mythology, which many scholars have found useful in interpreting Chicana literature. However, I contend that another text, Sandra Cisneros's The House on Mango Street, not only illustrates the need for an alternative paradigm for considering identity development, but in fact offers such an alternative. I argue that Cisneros shows a model for relational identity development, wherein the individual develops in the context of her community and is not determined solely by elements of myth or genealogy.

In questioning the historical paradigm of identity development, I examine three key aspects associated with Chicana identity development: gender, home, and language. Employing the theories of Édouard Glissant, I discuss how individual identity development is better understood in terms of relationships and experience rather than historical models. For Chicanas, the roles of women have largely been interpreted as predetermined, set by the mythic figures La Malinche and La Virgen de Guadalupe. However, Cisneros's work shows that this historical tradition is less fruitful in understanding identity than recognizing individuals' experience in context of their relationships. With this communal understanding established, I question the common associations of home and Chicana identity. I argue that Cisneros challenges our very concept of home as she engages and counters the notions of theorist Gaston Bachelard. The idea of a house is metaphorical, becoming a space of communal belonging rather than a physical structure to separate individuals. Finally, I consider how both spoken and written language contribute to relational identity development. I argue that Cisneros's use of language demonstrates that not only does language provide the means for development within a community, but also the means for creation within that society. The theoretical implications of such a relational identity construct are not only an expansion of what is entailed in Chicana identity, but an invitation for broadening the community of theoretical discussion surrounding Chicana literature.

It's probably no surprise to you that she passed her defense with flying colors.  Her thesis chair even remarked later that the defense was fun, surely a sign (unless he's a sadist) that she has done a good job.

Anna, I'm so thrilled with you for reaching this great milestone.  You are a brilliant woman and you never cease to amaze me with your wit and insight.  I've seen the hours of hard work and dedication that have brought you to this point and I am so proud of you for never giving up and doing superb work despite some significant challenges along the way.  I love you immensely and offer you congratulations and honor for this fine accomplishment.  Annalisa Wiggins, MA . . . I like the sound of that!

Our Lady of the Hall Closet

Miracle of miracles!  Can it really be?  Yes, it seems that the virgin Mary has appeared on our closet door.  But wait, there's more.

 

It looks like she is in all of our closet doors.  That's quite a marketing ploy.  Just make a fake wood door and texture a pattern of wood grain that looks like the Virgin Mary and you'll have tons of Catholics buying your product.  Whatever.  Well, if anyone wants to come burn a candle at our house . . . don't.

We also have another person in our walls.  He's an old man made out of the rocks on our fireplace.



Can you see him?  It's a profile of his face looking to the left.  He has a big jowely cheek, a hook-nose and a tiny little chin.  I think he's pretty cool.  Does anyone else have people in their walls?

Life is Pietzsche (or "pleased to Mietzsche" for those who know how to correctly pronounce Nietzsche's name)

Sorry, we've been busy with research.  We'll be better . . . we promise. 

I'll be back soon with more substance, but in the meantime I want to introduce you to one of the most delightful webpages I've seen in some time.  It is the Nietzsche Family Circus generator.  It replaces the caption of a random Family Circus comic with a random Nietzsche quote.  Here's an example:

The visionary lies to himself, the liar only to others.

See what I mean?  Go there, refresh often, and enjoy.

For Dummies

As I have been working toward bringing the drafting portion of my master's thesis to a close (so looking forward to the beginning of that revising portion next week . . .), I came across an odd reference. Occasionally I will go to Amazon.com to verify publication information for a source that I have taken research from, but no longer have with me for my works cited list. Because I look up so many of these books, Amazon has started giving me recommendations based on my searches. Many of the recommendations are books related to Chicana literature, or even just literature in general. Today I came across one that really astounded me: The Complete Idiot's Guide to English Literature. My first concern is that here I am trying to assert myself as a master of something—literature and writing—and all the while Amazon is suggesting that perhaps I am just an idiot when it comes to literary matters. But even more disconcerting is this entire genre of "idiot's guides" and "for dummies" manuals.

First of all, why do we as a society feel the need to cater to this population? We don't publish more particular manuals for other subsets of our culture. Can you imagine someone writing a book called Understanding Nietzsche for Tall People? Or perhaps Computer Programming for the Toothless? Of course not. Yet I recall seeing titles like Aging Well for Dummies and Pregnancy and Childbirth for Dummies at a local pharmacy while I was waiting for a prescription. Seriously?! Not only are we trying to keep dumb people around longer, we're trying to get more of them? Jesting aside, aren't there some pretty basic books out there on that kind of stuff to educate people, not "for dummies"? 

This brings me to my next point—the horrible marketing scheme of such books. I guess this industry has been successful enough, but what does that say about the people buying the books? When I worked in publishing, the self-help books usually got panned from the outset because honestly, who was going to go up to the register and admit they needed to buy that kind of help in the first place? Now compound this with the tag "for dummies" on it. On the other hand, maybe we as a society don't mind so much having our intelligence so regularly insulted. That tactic won Bill Clinton the White House ("it's the economy, stupid"). Twice. I just have a hard time following the thought process that gets one of those books purchased in the first place. "Gee, I was going to just get this book about basic woodworking, but seeing as how I'm an idiot, I guess I'll get the one that says IDIOT real big on the cover . . ." Take it to the register, look the clerk in the eye and just admit, "Yes, yes. I am a dummy, which means I probably have no business being involved with whatever this book is going to try to teach me. Nevertheless, being an idiot, I can hardly trust my own judgment. Please, take my money."

Note: I use the terms "idiot" and "dummy" synonymously here; some of you may have more nuanced differences in your particular definitions.

Truly, this whole genre seems incongruous to me. Trying to explain complex subjects to people self-labeled as idiots is like . . . stupid (oh, where's that pocket Similes for Dummies when you need it?). And futile. Perhaps dangerous, even. Most of these topics are things we really don't want idiots tampering with. Consider some of these titles (all genuine, available for purchase):

AP English Literature & Composition for Dummies—how did dummies get into AP English?

Home Buying for Dummies—might explain the current housing market

Foreclosure Investing for Dummies—now I get it . . .

The Complete Idiot's Guide to Dating—do we really want to let that loose on society?

The Complete Idiot's Guide to the Middle East Conflict—so that's what happened . . .

The Complete Idiot's Guide to Understanding Ethics—oh, dear

Politics for Dummies—wait, maybe this one could help

Blogging for Dummies—doh!

The GRE Test for Dummies—good luck there

Philosophy for Dummies—how is that possible?

Puppies for Dummies—pathetic in its own special way

The Complete Idiot's Guide to Street Magic—I think "idiot" is implied, you don't need to include it in the title

Calculus for Dummies—really? Really?I'm amazed they could get a whole book out of that one actually. Seems like a simple note would suffice: "If you're a dummy, you're out of your league. Put the book down and back away, slowly. . . . Right foot. Now left foot. Right foot again. Atta boy."

Chess for Dummies—yeah, we already have that. It's called checkers.

Dissertating till the break of dawn

I'm busy.  Come back later.

For now . . . enjoy these:

How many graduate students does it take to change a light bulb?

One, but it will take him 10 years.

How many therapists does it take to change a light bulb?

Just one, but the bulb has to really want to change.

How many bureaucrats does it take to change a light bulb?

10 to form the committee for the changing of light bulbs, one to requisition $10,000 per light bulb, and one to screw the bulb into the kitchen faucet.

How many kids with ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder) does it take to
change a lightbulb?

Hey! Do you wanna go ride bikes?

How many narcissists does it take to change a light bulb?

One to hold the bulb while the world revolves around him.

How many gay people does it take to change a light bulb?

None.  The bulb shouldn't have to change if it doesn't want to.

How many existentialists does it take to change a light bulb?

Two: One to screw it in and one to observe how the light bulb itself
symbolizes a single incandescent beacon of subjective reality in
a netherworld of endless absurdity reaching out toward a cosmos of
nothingness.

How many boring people does it take to change a light bulb?

Just one.

Do you guys know any more good ones?

Uniqueness, boundaries, and crossing them

I've really enjoyed reading everyone's experiences in the comments to my last post.  Not only were they quite astonishing, but they were also pretty funny.  You guys have left me thinking about a few things.

First, if we can look beyond all that is horrifying and astonishing about those experiences, there is (usually) something endearing about them also.  I think that one reason for this is that those experiences are irreducibly local and convey a certain color or flavor of that person in that ward in that place at that time, as well as your relationship to all of those layers of the context of your experience.  Not one of those experiences could have even come close to coming out of Church correlation.  We may (in theory) have been having the same lesson in Sunday School or Priesthood or Relief Society that you were having the week of your memorable experience, but you had something extra that reminded you that you would be missing out on something had you not been there (maybe that is a sacrifice that sometimes you would have been willing to make . . .).

Second, I think that we have our standard practices, customs, expectations, etc. for a reason and it is important to have some good awareness of them as we try to navigate relating to others in a community like a ward.  I'll refer to these social practices or mores as "boundaries," but insert the term that works best for you.  I think that one of the reasons that we have boundaries is to help us know how to be close to one another and to show each other respect.  The closer our relationships, the more vulnerable we become and the easier it is threaten and/or hurt one another.  It helps when there is some predictability then to how we might show respect and care for one another's vulnerabilities.  Boundaries often provide some of that predictability.  That said, boundaries often change from situation to situation and we all have experience discovering that we have unknowingly crossed a boundary.  There needs to be room for growth, learning, and forgiveness, so it is important that we be flexible and charitable where we can.  Remember, the point of boundaries is to help us to be close, not to sort out the "good people" from the "bad people."

As I've been thinking about this, it is striking to me how different boundaries can be from situation to situation and from context to context.  Likewise, I am also quite pleased at how often a tolerable respect for boundaries (at least within their reasonable margin of error) leaves ample room for the local character and uniqueness that I loved so much about your stories. 

[edit]

So Annalisa informs me that from this point in the post I got way too wierd.  I guess 2:00 a.m. with insomnia is not my most lucid moment.  For those of you who got to read it, I hope you had a good laugh.  For the rest of you, I'll just let you wonder what that picture of a funny doctor has to do with anything.

**update 7/14/08**
Wierd be hanged. Here's the redacted material:

Allow me to illustrate.

The boundaries of my relationship with my doctor (in the context of our appointment) are unlike any other relationship. What happens in the doctor's office has no true parallel to any other situation in my life. I find myself exposed, poked, prodded, and inspected by my doctor in ways and places that I permit no other person and with a (relative) level of comfort that, as I think about it, is quite astonishing. Why does this work? It works because we know how to behave as doctor and patient, we know what the boundaries are. And yet, I've had some pretty interesting doctor's appointments within those boundaries. Recently I came bumping up against those boundaries as I had to have a somewhat more "detailed" inspection than what is usual for me (I'll leave it at that). What cracked me up (what pun? I said I'd leave it at that) was how much all of the quirks and idiosyncrasies of my doctor shone through as he checked things out. His funny way of talking and some of his strange expressions made me excruciatingly aware that it was Dr. Graden and no other doctor that was doing my exam. Absolutely professional, absolutely unique; still a bit awkward, but probably the least awkward that something like that is ever going to get. Thank goodness for boundaries!

I'll let you judge this next one for yourselves as far as boundary appropriateness goes. During my first semester at BYU I was getting my missionary papers together, so I went to the health center (it was the old one then) for my physical. The doctor that I saw had an exam room with an adjoining office separated by a window wall and a door that was wide open. He had me sit on the exam table and did all of the usual stuff. It came time for me to cough for him and he told me to stand up and lower my pants and boxers. He had the little drawer-type step on the exam table open so that is where I ended up standing by default, which felt a bit awkward (a pedestal of sorts?). I followed the rest of his instructions just as the telephone in his office rang. And he answered it. And I was left there. Standing. Half naked. On the step. While he talked on the phone. After about 30 of the longest seconds I felt justified in replacing my boxers until he finally finished his phone call and returned. I then resumed my readiness and was expecting him to go for the box of latex gloves before proceeding. Instead he just went for it. I think I would have coughed whether he had said to or not. I passed my physical and went on my way, but what a weird experience. The boundaries that really counted were still in place (maybe the hygiene one was a little iffy), but it was such an odd moment when he shifted from doctor to telephone conversationalist and left me there in all my glorious patienthood.
Yikes, I hope I haven't crossed any irreparable boundaries in sharing these stories. Either way, there is no question that this post is from Brady Wiggins.

Things that make you go . . . cringe

Saturday evening Anna and I were visiting with Jonny and Jen at their new house in Salt Lake.  We had a great time visiting with them and there were some gems from our conversation that I think are worth sharing.  One of the things that we talked about was church horror stories—you know, the ones where someone breaks with convention in such a way that most people in the room feel uncomfortable and the Spirit seems to retreat.

Don't get me wrong; there are some great moments where breaking with convention can be a breath of fresh air and can help you see the gospel in fresh and enlivening ways.  For example, I've heard prayers that were perhaps unusual in a Mormon meeting, but conveyed a sincerity and intimacy in speaking with the Lord that was quite inspiring.

What I am talking about is when someone preaches politics from the pulpit or shares "personal experiences" that are way too personal.  And let me tell you, between the four of us, we had some doozies.

Perhaps not the dooziest, one of my recent experiences (one that I think is nearly universal for adult members of the Church) was when an elder's quorum instructor gave a rather emotionally driven lesson on the atonement which included the instructor giving an impromptu a capella rendition of a hymn.  His justification for this was, "I think my feelings are best expressed by this hymn . . ."

Now I can be moved by music as much as the next guy, but this just made me uncomfortable.  Singing can be such a personal thing and it feels uncomfortable when you're part of a captive audience and that is thrust upon you without warning.

I wasn't sure if I was just being too stodgy with my expectations for what should be in an elder's quorum lesson, but as we were talking about this on Saturday, it occurred to me how strange this phenomenon really is.  Do we ever do this in regular conversation?  Try to imagine a few:

Me:  So what brings you in for therapy today?

Client:  I dunno, I've just been feeling down lately.

Me:  Could you say more about what "feeling down" has been like for you?

Client:  Ummmm . . . it's hard to describe.  I think my feelings are best summed up by this song [begins singing]:

I can't get no satisfaction.  I can't get no girly action.  But I try, and I try, and I try, and I try.  I can't get no . . . no no no!  Hey hey heh-hey!  That's what I say!

You know what I mean doc?

[end scene]

Or try this one:

Mother:  I am at my wit's end!  These kids are driving me crazy.  You're gone at work all day and I have to put up with all of this on my own.

Father:  You sound worn out.  What are they doing?

Mother:  What aren't they doing?  I don't even know where to begin.  I think that the Beatles said it best [begins singing]:

Have you seen the little piggies
Crawling in the dirt
And for all the little piggies
Life is getting worse
Always having dirt to play around in.

Have you seen the bigger piggies
In their starched white shirts
You will find the bigger piggies
Stirring up the dirt
Always have clean shirts to play around in.

In their styes with all their backing
They don't care what goes on around
In their eyes there's something lacking
What they need's a damn good whacking.

Everywhere there's lots of piggies
Living piggy lives
You can see them out for dinner
With their piggy wives
Clutching forks and knives to eat their bacon

Does that make sense?

Father:  Our kids have piggy wives?  Wait, who are the bigger piggies in this?  Hey, you said the "D" word!

[end scene]

Maybe just one more:

Wife: Honey, did you finish off the leftover pizza?

Husband: Yeah, I had it for lunch.

Wife: Well what should we have for dinner?  I don't feel too ambitious.  What are you in the mood for?

Husband: Ummmm . . . I don't know. [begins singing]:

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with string--these are a few of my favorite things

Wife: Again?

Husband: Okay, okay.  How about [begins singing]:

And Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-e-Iiiiiiiii will always love you-e-oooo-e-ooo . . . will always love you-ooooo

Wife:  That makes no sense.  How are we supposed to make that for dinner?

Husband:  Well . . . I think this song says it best [begins singing]:

I'm your only friend
I'm not your only friend
But I'm a little glowing friend
But really I'm not actually your friend
But I am

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

I have a secret to tell
From my electrical well
It's a simple message and I'm leaving out the whistles and bells
So the room must listen to me
Filibuster vigilantly
My name is blue canary one note spelled l-i-t-e
My story's infinite
Like the Longines Symphonette it doesn't rest

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

I'm your only friend
I'm not your only friend
But I'm a little glowing friend
But really I'm not actually your friend
But I am

There's a picture opposite me
Of my primitive ancestry
Which stood on rocky shores and kept the beaches shipwreck free
Though I respect that a lot
I'd be fired if that were my job
After killing Jason off and countless screaming Argonauts
Bluebird of friendliness
Like guardian angels its always near

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

(and while you're at it
Keep the nightlight on inside the
Birdhouse in your soul)

Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch (and while you're at it)
Who watches over you (keep the nightlight on inside the)
Make a little birdhouse in your soul (birdhouse in your soul)

Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch (and while you're at it)
Who watches over you (keep the nightlight on inside the)
Make a little birdhouse in your soul (birdhouse in your soul)

Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

You know what I mean?

Wife: Eggs and bacon it is then.

Husband: But prepared exactly the way I sang it.

[end scene]

Okay, maybe I got a little carried away there, but my point is that it would be wierd.  Really really wierd.

Please share your own church horror stories in the comments.  I'm really curious.