Posts Tagged ‘English Faculty’

This Summer, Read Books you’re Not Supposed to Read!

Posted: June 19, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , ,
1

By Jenny Jocks Stelzer, English Faculty. 

Students who take classes with both of us usually agree: MSJ = smart and serious, JJS = smart and not-serious. I’m not so sure about the “smart” part, but they’ve pretty much got us pegged as far as teaching styles, music, books, general disposition, and overall proclivities. While MSJ provides the straight dope on historical subjects like WWI, slavery, and the Holocaust, I teach lit with as much sex and cursing in it as I can get away with (Don’t hate. It can be done smartly and hilariously to a delightful affect). While he reads NON-FICTION (read in a big, deep, serious voice), I read hip-hop journalism for my class and contemporary fiction with my book group (read in a “Yay!” voice). While he listens to what we affectionately refer to as “sad bastard music,” (you know, Bon Iver on heavy rotation), I’m always getting in trouble when one of my downloads comes up on our iTunes shuffle with the kids around (What? DMX isn’t appropriate?). Unless it’s JT. Then, we get down.

So, when it comes to the whole “beach reads” discussion, I’m with him on the “read something smart” tip, but I’m so NOT with him on the “read something serious” tip. Here’s what I’ll be reading in the beach chair next to his:

  • Junot Diaz’s “This Is How You Lose Her”. Did I mention that I like smart and hilariousImage cursing? I also like stories about people doing the wrong thing. Diaz’s narrator (and, probably, alter ego) Yunior (whom I met in the also-awesome “Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao”) is a lying, cheating mother-f’er, and I love him. THAT’S how good Diaz’s writing is.
  • ImageKRS-One’s “The Gospel of Hip-Hop: The First Instrument”. Because how can I claim any kind of street credibility (in hip-hop OR in philosophy) without reading The Teacha’s treatise? I’m following this up with The RZA’s “Wu Tang Manual,” because, why the F not?
  • Chuck Palahniuk’s “Fight Club.” I know, I know: “But, that’s a ‘guy’s Imagebook’!” “But, it’s so violent!” and, “But, his depiction of women?!” The same is said of Fincher’s film which, quite possibly, is my favorite movie. Dudes, chill. This book is FEMINIST, y’all: it’s a comment on excessive machismo, and it’s also super anti-consumerism and supremely shit-disturbing, which I LOVE. Plus, you’ve got that image of Brad Pitt (sans shirt) beating the crap out of someone. That’s the stuff for a beach chair.
  • ImageAnais Nin’s “A Spy in the House of Love”. Seriously, forget “50 Shades.” The first book was fun but, after that, WAY too much authorial effort went toward the plot. We all know what we’re reading it for. It’s summertime.  It’s hot. Get yourself some real erotica. While Henry Miller gets all the props for the books you’re not supposed to read, Nin’s got the chops. Her diaries are great, too, but, in this novel, Sabina gets to do the stuff that Miller only lets men do.

So, friends of MSJ and JJS, when you’re heading to the beach (or, in our case, the pool, where we claim to be hanging with our kids, but, really, we’re just lazing in the sun with our books), you could get all serious and learn lots with him (which is totally cool, really), or, you could get all not-serious with me, and read stuff you’re not supposed to.

My Radical Summer Reading List, by Tricia Lunt

Posted: June 18, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,
0

By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty.

Art as Experience, by John DeweyImage

When I look at something extraordinary that has been made by a human (or humans), I think, wow! People are capable of remarkable things. Art amazes me, and I want to know more about it. Also, I find Dewey’s work exceedingly readable.

ImageThe Art of Living: The Classical Manual on Virtue, Happiness, and Effectiveness, by Epictetus

I never tire of Greek philosophers because when it comes to the essential truths of human experience, 2,000 years seems to be no time at all.

As I Lay Dying, by William Faulkner.Image

I studied primarily British Literature in college and graduate school, so I never read much Faulkner, and feel I ought to correct that oversight.

ImageHouse of Leaves, by Mark Z. Danielewski,

Two of my favorite students have vehemently recommended this book. Since they both read the texts I assigned, it is about time I return the favor by reading something selected by them.

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini

This book is on my 16-year-old nephew’s summer reading list, and he’s asked me to read along with him. This is the right nephew for me to have, to be sure! I am thrilled by the opportunity to discuss literature with Alexey!

Book club selection, TBD.

I belong to an outrageously fantastic book club. Known affectionately as “The Lady Woolfs,”we are nine ladies, six local and three long-distance members. If you have the opportunity to join a preposterously perfect book club, by all means, take it.

Celebrities Eat Lunch, Too

Posted: June 13, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , ,
0

By Paul Gaszak, English Faculty

On Monday, I made the short trip from Chicago to Milwaukee to see one of my favorite musicians, Frank Turner. As with many of my favorite singers/bands, he was playing a mid-sized venue (this one being the conveniently named Turner Hall) packed with several hundred devoted fans.

I arrived a few hours early so I could eat before the show. As I left the parking garage next to the venue,  I saw Frank walking back to his tour bus from the next block over and then hanging out with a handful of people, either crew or band mates.

I did a double take, but mostly this didn’t strike me as unusual. As a fan of several lesser known artists, I’ve had countless sightings like this one, because these artists don’t need to hide backstage from rabid, adoring legions. Rather, I’ve seen them by their tour busses, or watching the opening acts with the crowd, or having a drink at a nearby bar after the show.

And I have a policy to not approach them.

Frank Turner

My point-of-view at Frank Turner’s show.

I was heading in the direction Frank had just come back from, but I walked past with no fanfare and no acknowledgement. A few hours later, I would be right near the stage being a fan: singing, dancing, taking pictures. But for now, I treated him like any other stranger on the streets of Milwaukee.

I almost always make this decision about celebrity close encounters, but I’ve never thought out why I act this way.

Until now.

1. Remember – celebrities eat lunch, too: As a teacher, I can empathize with celebrities in one small way: some people in our audience (the students) forget that teachers still exist when not “on stage” in class. We aren’t chained to the lectern; we eat lunch, we have friends and family, we need sleep. Likewise, maybe Frank was relaxing pre-show or coming back from lunch on the same street I was heading toward. He didn’t need me bugging him. Our time for interaction is during the show.

2. Respect, but don’t idolize: A decade ago, I saw comedian Lewis Black at the small Zanies Comedy Club in Vernon Hills before he got famous and started headlining theaters. Afterward, he was at folding table in the back selling his CD. No one was approaching. As I exited past him, I paused to shake his hand and said, “Great show.” He smiled and said thanks. I didn’t orchestrate some attempt to go talk to him, and I wasn’t being a fanboy looking to repeat my favorite punchlines back to him. I didn’t want pictures or autographs. We were in proximity and I quickly acknowledged that I enjoy and respect his work. End of transaction.

3. Do I honestly have anything to say?: One of my favorite authors, David Sedaris, packs theaters for hilarious readings of his works. Before and after his shows, he signs books and meet fans. Oftentimes the line is hundreds deep. The one time I saw him at the Paramount Theater in Aurora, IL, he was sitting alone at a table by the front entrance when I arrived. I could have walked directly up to him, but I didn’t. This is a man whose work I adore, whose writing I try to emulate, whose literature I teach in my classes – yet still, I had no pressing questions or statements for him. So, what was I going to say? “Hey, I love your writing.” No kidding – I’m at the theater, aren’t I? Likewise with Frank or any other artist, do I honestly have anything of value to say to them that they don’t hear from hundreds of other fans at every stop on tour?

4. What if they suck?: Normally, I separate my feelings about an artist from my feelings about their work. But with my absolute favorites, I am nervous. What if they are mean or rude or dismissive? What if they say something stupid that I disagree with? What if they are generally unlikable? I fear that would ruin, or at least severely harm, my ability to enjoy their work in the future.

So, after a truly Wisconsin meal of a bratwurst, cheese curds, and some brews, I headed back to the venue and took my position at the foot of the stage. When I saw Frank this next time, it was a far more fitting situation for our interaction.

Keyless Entry

Posted: June 12, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , ,
0

By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty. 

The substantial handful of keys for my new apartment presented me with a typical challenge for apartment-dwellers. The other night, I went up and down my three flights of stairs three times (front, then back, then front again) before solving the mystery: which key Imagefits which lock? I grew up without keys. I know that sounds improbable, like any number of lies older people tell younger people to illustrate the stunning difference between then and now, but it’s the truth. We didn’t lock our doors. It was my Mother’s house, and she always said, “We don’t have much that’s worth stealing.” The less we had, the less we had to worry about, she reasoned. Thus began my detachment from the accumulation of material wealth.

I’m not interested in expensive things. Recently, I was filling out a questionnaire that Imageinquired about products I’d purchased in the past few months. There was a question about purchasing gas, but thanks to the CTA, I donated my car 5 years ago. I don’t buy any games because I don’t have a video game console. Generally, I don’t buy (or illegally download) movies or songs because I subscribe to Netflix and listen to Pandora or old CD’s. In fact, the bulk of the movies and music I own are gifts; my friends know me well and are generous.

Even though I might like to have fancier things, I don’t confuse my desire with need. One of my favorite lines of poetry is “getting and spending we lay waste our powers,” a forceful reminder to use time and money more deliberately from William Wordsworth’s “The World is Too Much with Us.”  The life-choice to invest in people rather than things still requires constant effort in contemporary American society. A great article written in 1998 by Juliet B. Schor called “Keeping Up with the Gateses” addresses the need to resist the relentless upward skew of competitive consumption. In response to the social pressures to consume at a rate that far surpasses income, Schor wrote about people who strive to create a life Imagethat is abundant in experiences and relationships, rather than possessions, a trend I am proud to be a part of, and one that has grown in the past 15 years, including down-shifting  and the slow movement. Every day I try to concentrate my energy on things that are truly worth my time and attention.

And, as much as we all want to believe in keys and the safety and security they seem to promise, locked doors don’t always accomplish much. I know many people whose homes have been burgled while the doors remained firmly locked. When an intruder attempted to get in to my apartment this past February, he wrapped his elbow in a jacket and broke through the bedroom window. Happily, he didn’t bother entering once he realized someone was home because he certainly would have been disappointed by the lack of big-ticket items.

As for keys, I wear some as earrings, and I use the ones for my new apartment, too. But if I could, I would follow my mother’s example and leave my doors unlocked since the things I value can’t be stolen: the fullness of experience, the times spent with friends, the joy of family traditions. Still, I might worry (as she does on occasion) that the wind would blow the doors open, and rain would come inside.

How Much for a Pound of Prevention?

Posted: June 10, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , ,
1

By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty. 

Although I’m too old to be naïve, I’m frequently surprised by the narrowness of news coverage.  I don’t watch much broadcast news, except to laugh along with WGN in the morning. Research suggests that while TV news offers information (updates, breaking news, too often numbers of casualties), it doesn’t meaningfully impact knowledge, only print (both online and old-fashioned paper) enhances understanding. So, I don’t look to televised news to understand current events, but many people do, and I’m thinking about others. Like Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, I want televised news to be better than it is.

Once a story is “cold,” it disappears, right? Not necessarily, is there more idle speculation? More uninformed chaos? More deep-seated fear? That will be covered. The same details will be told and retold. And here I pause to suggest news stories should present more, should be plumbing the depths to offer meaningful insight.

The most recent example is the (remarkably, wonderfully, unbelievably) diverted bomb-plot in an Oregon high school. The attack was stopped. Someone who heard about the plot (not the alleged perpetrator or his mother, apparently) contacted the authorities, who were able to intervene and stop a horrific event from unfolding. This is crucially important, as large-scale gun violence and the cost to communities and victims is incalculable. So why isn’t this miraculous intervention being talked about more in the press?

ImageQuite often, one of the first questions that arises after a tragedy is, “why didn’t someone say something?” And here it is; someone said something. Where is this person? Why is he or she (publically or anonymously) not being lauded as a hero and used as a model of behavior? Experts in effective intervention strategies and civic responsibility ought to be filling the weekly news programs. National news programs missed a vital opportunity to discuss how and why things can go right in society. We can’t all be first responders or FBI operatives, but we can all be better neighbors (yes, as a former Clevelander, I’m thinking of the imperfect hero Charles Ramsey).  Vast power resides in the certainty that ordinary people can serve and protect each other, too.

Too frequently, public discourse rushes past the mundane struggle to maintain harmony. Years ago while watching the History Channel, I listened as a biography of a great pharaoh began with an introduction describing his female predecessor and aunt Hatshepsut, a leader who ruled Egypt in peace and prosperity for 20 years. To my dismay (but not surprise), the program did not describe her strategies for promoting peace and ensuring economic success; instead, it swiftly moved on to the bloody battles waged and won by the ruler of interest, Tuthmosis III. I am not suggesting one ruler is better than another, or that one set of accomplishments is more important, though history books frequently do. What I am looking for is the much-needed reflection on what is working, and what can work. Time is well spent when we help others overcome sadness, but time should also be devoted to encouraging stability, wellness, and peace. 

This Medal Should Be Yours

Posted: May 30, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , ,
1

By Paul Gaszak, English Faculty

Outside the stadium before the start of the Solider Field 10 Mile race.

Outside the stadium before the start of the Solider Field 10 Mile race.

On Saturday, I ran the Soldier Field 10 Mile race. It was an appropriately timed event: Memorial Day weekend at a stadium that is dedicated to the men and women of the Armed Services.

The route began outside the stadium, went south along Lake Shore Drive, and then led runners back to the finish line inside Soldier Field on the 50 yard line. Running onto the field was one of the primary reasons I signed up, and doing so was even cooler than I imagined.

The finish line inside Solder Field.

The finish line inside Solder Field.

Then, after the race, a different moment that was intended to be special actually left me feeling quite different.

Runners filtered back into the stadium and got treated to the typical post-race amenities: water, Gatorade, and a souvenir bag filled with snacks. Another post-race reward at many races is the finisher’s medal. It is essentially a participation trophy as everyone who crosses the finish line gets one, but I like this extra touch to commemorate the accomplishment of finishing the race.

I followed the stream of people while holding my phone in one hand (I use the MapMyRun+ app to pace myself) and a bottle of water in the other. A logjam of people stopped where race volunteers were putting the medals on the runners. Another volunteer then began directing people to another spot for the medals; I went that way.

Instead of volunteers, there was a line of service members in their uniforms putting the medals on runners.

At this moment, I had one of those internal debates that seemed to last far longer than the few seconds of real time it actually took me to walk up to the serviceman on the end of the line who couldn’t have been more than 21-years-old.

The finisher medal.

The finisher’s medal.

My internal debate led me to a conclusion that apparently differed from many runners. Days after the race, feedback online from other runners was overwhelmingly positive about having the service members distributing medals. People said it was cool, that it was an honor.

I felt ashamed.

Here I am: an overweight, sweaty English teacher whose big accomplishment that day was running some miles.

Here he is: a young person voluntarily serving our country.

I wanted to run back to the other line and get my medal from one of the volunteers. This kid shouldn’t be putting a medal on me; I should be putting one on him. He already caught sight of me approaching, though. I wanted to ask to be handed the medal rather than have it placed on me like I did something special or important, but my hands were full, and before my internal debate fully concluded, he was already putting the medal over my head.

All I could say to him was, “Thank you very much, sir. I appreciate it.”

Yes, I was thanking him for the medal and the gesture, but the sentiment carried a different level of meaning that belongs to him and all of our service members.

Potentially Excellent

Posted: May 22, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , ,
2

By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty. 

I had a professor in graduate school named Dr. Daniel Melnick who rarely gave student Imagework a full-fledged “A”. He nearly always wrote, “potentially excellent, A-“. Many years later, I am accustomed to imperfection, still happy with an “A-,” still encouraged by the word potentially. Unfortunately, I still make foolish mistakes; take every post I have written for this blog, for example. Even though I have drafted and edited each at least five times, the minute I re-read it online, I spot an error.

I am a ceaseless critic of my students’ work, by necessity, but also of my own work and life, generally. It has a lot to do with the training I received in undergraduate and graduate school, and I am grateful for the capacity to be critical, but I must defend against my proclivity to become overly so (I am sometimes referred to as the “Dream Killer” when rushing to identify problems instead of pausing to provide encouragement). Recently, I did what I too often do: I jumped to the fault. I pointed out the one tiny error in a truly useful info-graphic my friend Hanna made for a class for which she was to be a guest speaker. Only after realizing how ungrateful my behavior was did I retreat and praise her efforts and thank her again for kindly sharing her expertise and advice with my students, devoting both her time and her knowledge without pay. In my haste to correct problems, I must remember not to diminish the larger accomplishment.

Perfection is not attainable, despite what my friend Ian’s mother might say. I share the truth as embodied by baseball batting averages; a phenomenal batting average is .400, orImage “batting 400”.  I discuss the implications of this statistic with my students. In ten attempts, we should expect six failures, hope for no more than four successes. I find this analogy immensely comforting. Nevertheless, I feel foolish when what I write contains errors since I am supposed to know better. Well, I suppose I do know better, I just don’t do better. Fortunately, this realization does not paralyze me with fear because my colleague and fellow turtle member, Paul, has given all who write for this blog the gift of a revolutionary idea: “perfect is the opposite of done.” This motto allows us to accept the inevitability of flaws as part of the larger process of building something that has lasting value.

My friendships are the best example of something spectacular I have built over the years. Coincidentally, friendship provides a different perspective on flaws. The longer a friendship Imagelasts, the more accepting friends are of each other’s foibles. At some point (around about the one decade of friendship mark, it seems), something rather extraordinary happens: the flaws and eccentricities and imperfections become what we love most. When I behave in my peculiar way; lining up M & M’s in color-coded rows, insisting Chris Rock was not in that movie, packing seven scarves for a three-day weekend, or arriving entirely too early for a party, people who have loved me for ten years are charitable enough to view these quirks as part of my charm. Flaws are noticeable, often painfully so, but being loved in spite of, or even because of, our flaws creates a powerful connection established in the understanding that though we are imperfect creatures, we are magnificent, too. Besides, when a thing is flawless, there’s really nothing left to say. 

Stay Back from the Edge

Posted: May 16, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,
0

By Paul Gaszak, English Faculty

Last week, I went hiking at Starved Rock State Park. The area is beautiful: there are sandstone canyons with waterfalls, outlooks perched over the Illinois River, and miles of forest trails.

The trails are clearly, and perhaps excessively, marked. The full trail map is posted at regular intervals, there are markings that indicate whether you are moving toward or away from the Visitor’s Center, and the squirrels have been trained to answer questions. (But sometimes their advice is nuts.)

iPhone 5-8-13 084Additionally, areas that look like trails that aren’t are subtly marked, “NOT A TRAIL.”

Naturally, whenever I saw those, I went that way.

This isn’t necessarily advisable. Actually, it’s against the law, as the ample signage points out. Warning at SR

Starved Rock’s neighboring park, Matthiessen, also notes on its website: “Hike only the marked trails. Unmarked areas are dangerous. Numerous people have been seriously injured or killed in this park. Be off the trails by dark.”

(What terrible things are wandering the forest at night? Ghosts? Monsters? A really dedicated Deliverance reenactment troupe?)

A quick Google search turns up plenty of news stories about people heading off trail at Starved Rock to terrible results. One was about a woman who fell 40 feet into a canyon, had to be airlifted to a hospital, and THEN got ticketed for being off the marked trails. Because police thought the ticket would teach her a lesson.

Eschewing logic, safety, and legalities, I went off trail multiple times. One time, I scrambled down sandstone, over tree branches, and battled a persistent wasp to get a look at one of the canyons. While climbing down, had I hooked my foot on anything or taken a misstep, I would have fallen down jagged terrain, but that would have just been a good storytellin’ scar.

It was later on in the day when I had second thoughts.

You can't see the ground underneath me? Exactly.

You can’t see the ground underneath me? Exactly.

I climbed down another “NOT A TRAIL!” to look at one of the park’s many waterfalls. A winding strip of land led to a canyon, narrowing to mere inches where I finally stopped to take pictures of the waterfall spilling down about 40-60 feet. While playing amateur photog with my iPhone, I looked down and saw how close I was to the edge.

For a moment, I felt like a kid again who recognized he had just done something stupid, and I could hear my mother’s voice in my head reprimanding me, making sure to use my first and middle name the way mothers (and girlfriends) do when you’re in trouble: “Paul Thomas, get away from that ledge!”

I sidled back to safer ground and then looked back at where I was standing. I would consider it insane to climb onto the ledge outside my 6th floor office window at work,  but apparently if you put a waterfall within my sights, I’ll dangle happily from that height.

We all have different interpretations of what qualifies as dangerous, and sometimes our personal perspectives are contradictory or even absurd. Take for instance:

1. I have never been on a motorcycle; it just seems dangerous. Yet on numerous occasions, I have driven a waverunner in excess of 60 mph out to secluded waters by myself while doing every dangerous thing the user manual likely says not to do.

Brick and bear2. Furry animals don’t bother me no matter how large, how angry, or how much white foam is coming from their maws. I’d happily cuddle a man-eating bear like Brick Tamland. Yet, snakes horrify me; I truly have ophidiophobia. The most terrifying part of Starved Rock was

Even this doe-eyed cartoon snake with eyelashes terrifies me. Actually, the eyelashes make it even scarier.

Even this doe-eyed cartoon snake with eyelashes terrifies me. Actually, the eyelashes make it even scarier.

the sign that warned visitors to be aware of poisonous snakes that may be basking on the trail. But it’s not just dangerous, poisonous snakes – it’s all snakes: big, small, cartoon. Two weeks ago at Kankakee River State Park, I saw a snake the size of a pencil and nearly ran screaming from the woods. My phobia wasn’t quelled any by the fact that the snake was also terrified and desperately trying to get away from the dumb, gigantic, lumbering mammal who spotted it.

skydeck3. I have heart palpitations just looking at pictures of that architecturally sound and completely safe deathtrap-looking box at the Willis Tower Skydeck, yet I’m not bothered by the heights of a canyon I was warned not to go near.

Whether a fear is learned or instinctual, sometimes our sense of danger is triggered even when danger isn’t present (see: tiny snake). And other times, when it should be going off, it doesn’t. Sometimes fear is what drives us or creates a thrill. And sometimes, we just ignore signs, logic, and laws, because they’re all just suggestions – right?

Invitation to an Inventory

Posted: May 14, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , ,
0

By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty.

I’m moving at the end of May, so I spend a small amount of time each morning packing a box or two. I am not going far; I found another apartment Logan Square, approximately seven blocks away. Nevertheless, the process of moving has been revelatory. The first observation for all movers is the same: I have more stuff than I thought.  As I slowly pack, carefully wrapping things and nestling them according to similarity of purpose and placement, the boxes have begun to pile up, and I still have more stuff. I don’t even own much, really. I certainly don’t own things of much value, except the sentimental kind.  Moving forces individuals to confront their relationship with their possessions, and I am pleased to see how my things beautifully align with the life I have chosen.

Like most American women, I own entirely too many articles of clothing. However, the clothes I own are inexpensive, enabling me to rationalize buying more than I need and buying from thrift stores ensures that no one else will be wearing the same thing. I have already packed most of my considerable scarf collection. There are two segments of the scarf collection, the winter variety, at least fifty scarves that range in size, color, and pattern, including special scarves handmade for me by Ruthie, my brilliant friend from graduate school; Jackie Couch, my best friend’s mom; and other crafty friends Ingrid and Hanna.  The non-winter variety includes another fifty whimsical, colorful bits of fabric, many gifts from friends who recognize scarves as my accessory of choice because they are unique and appealing and make any outfit infinitely more fabulous.

A growing number of boxes are filled with items for cooking, baking, and entertaining. Even though I live alone, I have (mismatched) service for 12 or more in order to feed as many people as will fit in my modest apartment. I grew up in a crowded, rowdy house, and can think of no better definition of home than a small space overflowing with people and laughter. My incomparable book club cycles through my place twice per year. I host brunches and dinners for my Urban Family on designated holidays and birthdays, and just for the hell of it. I cherish oddities, a fair amount of serving “fish dishes” and accessories shaped like fish (I like rhyming). The best example are gifts from Leah, twin fish salt and pepper shakers, and a completely adorable and utterly inaccurate set of fish-shaped measuring spoons that are the mysterious secret behind my perfectly salty chocolate chip cookies.

City_Lights_BookstoreI have beloved books, and plenty of them. I love books, but not all books are worth the trouble it takes to lift and lug them across states, or even around the corner. I keep the countless books I have received as gifts, specially selected for me by my tremendously thoughtful friends and family. I buy a book every time I travel, being careful to select a title meaningfully tied to the place. On my recent trip to San Francisco, I visited City Lights Books and bought a poetry anthology from its own publishing imprint. I have inscribed copies of all the books written by Dan Chaon,a phenomenal writer who was my professor in graduate school. Books comprise a majority of my possessions, which seems reasonable to me.

The last major segment of my possessions consists of works of art, relatively inexpensive art, but art nonetheless. As I eagerly anticipate hanging them on new walls, it occurs to me that these things are the most prized. I have wonderful souvenirs from my travels, a Huicholi yarn drawing from my trip to Puerta Vallarta. Austin Kleon’s  work wowed me online, and bought one of his limited edition “Newspaper Blackout Poems.” Chicago festivals are a treasury of local artists, including Jay Ryan. I’m incredibly lucky to know artists. My dear, old friend, Emily made me two fantastic pieces, and gave me one more. I bought a marvelous reclining nude hand-drawn by the wonderfully creative Chas Appleby, my former student and forever friend. Matt Schlagbaum knows he owes me a work of art, too. All this art makes my walls sing.

Despite all the trouble and strain, moving affords the chance to look carefully at the stuff of life. If you’re lucky like me, you’ll discover you are very rich indeed.

Mom Lunt

Posted: May 10, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,
0

By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty.

One post could never do my mother justice, but I suppose I better start somewhere. I’ll think Imageabout the marvelous things my mother did. My mother raised my brothers and sisters and I (all 7 of us) essentially alone. She was a single mother for my entire life, and like all single mothers, she did the unimaginable: she provided for her family. This, in itself, is extraordinary. The current statistics in the United States indicate that as of 2011, over 10 million American women are single mothers. I need a minute to process that. No, I need a lifetime. I simply cannot imagine how she managed. Like every appreciative adult child, I look back and think, “how in the hell did my mother do it?” The truly amazing thing about my mother is that not only did she manage to see us all fed and clothed and educated, she did beautiful motherly things, too.

The special things that my mother continues to bake for her family helped establish charming family traditions. When I started teaching, I would reference family traditions, and my students were dumbfounded. Their mothers never made homemade jellies and pretzels and cookies and cakes. As she was baking, she would explain things: tell stories, inviting the memory of the recipe’s original author into the kitchen, distant relatives and former neighbors. Mrs. Keller contributed a fair number of dishes. My mom would prompt me, “you remember Mrs. Keller, don’t you?” I didn’t, but what did it matter? Different memories were embodied in each dish, and the traditions evolved over the years. A story I typically share with my students involves my mother’s tradition of celebrating the first day of school with homemade doughnuts. This means that my mother woke up at 4am that day, every year for two decades. It makes perfect sense that I ultimately became a teacher. My mother taught us to celebrate school. Just think of that. My sister Theresa now carries on the tradition with her three boys, making doughnuts the day before the first school day, and many of the 12 nieces and nephews come when they can. A few years ago, I noticed that my brothers and sisters and I all eat the doughnuts the same way; we close our eyes, take a bite, and are transported.

My mother also has a deep love for flowers, which makes sense as she was raised on a flower farm. Sadly, I never had a chance to see the farm where she was raised, but she brought her knowledge of flowers to her home. I recognize the first signs of spring in the early flowers, crocuses and forsythia which she taught me to identify. There were daffodils, of course, and later in the summer a tiny swath of violets. The house where I grew up has had over the years a remarkable preponderance of blooming and fruit trees: lavender lilacs, white dogwoods, Japanese weeping cherry, crabapple, pear, and plum trees. The special additions my mother made were rose bushes planted in front of the three front windows: red and white roses in front of her window, and yellow roses in front of the girls’ room because they were her eldest daughter, Betsy’s, favorite. My mother planted colorful annuals in beds by the back door, something my eldest brother Ralph does for her now every Mother’s Day.

Older Entries