Spring Forward

Disclaimer: I have never lived anywhere that has a “real” winter. The following description of spring may therefore not match your own. Or reality.

I think all too often, people focus on just one aspect of what spring means. It’s so easy to get caught up in the new leaves on the trees, colors in the plants and seeing the sun again. But that leads us to forget that it’s more like a waking up exercise; stretching from the stasis and slumber of winter, we change into something new. Spring is the chaos of breaking out of the old frozen pattern.

While I welcome the return of warm temperatures and more than 8 hours of daylight, this spring is bringing other noticeable changes to my life. There are cracks in the ice that has held me in place so long.

First, after years of theoretical and ephemeral “progress”, I’m actually making strides with my work. I defended my proposal last month, putting me on track to complete my program next year. I’ve been here six years. SIX! After I passed my comps in year three, my progress has been pretty illusory. I managed to build a little world for myself that involved some work but, on the whole, no real forward motion. I didn’t even start to put together anything for my dissertation until last year. But now the dam is breaking. I’m looking forward to finishing up, with all of the job hunting goodness that entails. As a consequence, I find myself working all the time. Nights, weekends, before 9AM. Yuck. There’s signs of life on the career front and, for the first time in a long time, I find that when I say “it’s time to be done”, I really mean it.

But while work is important, it’s not the only area in which I’m breaking new ground. Last night, I signed a lease-with my girlfriend-for a place to move into this summer. Five years at my current location is long enough; I haven’t lived anywhere else this long since I was 18. So now there are changes and new things for me to worry about. Where is all our furniture going to go? How are finances going to work? Do I really have to paint the whole house? What is it going to be like to live with a *gasp* girl? I’m excited to take this step, hopeful of where our relationship is going, and proud of how far we’ve come, but change is still scary. Living on my own is so engrained that it’s become like a deep pattern, it’s just what I do. But now I’ll have different concerns to worry about and things I might not expect to deal with.

So this year I think I’m dealing with spring in all its meanings. Not just the temperature, the sun, the daylight savings, but also the change and chaos that it brings as the patterns of winter are shrugged off and the possibility and potential of something new springing forth is uncovered.

Read more on “Spring” by the Creative Collective.

Pick a Color-Take 2

I have this mental conception of self presentation as a relatively serene person, accepting the world with at most a slight smirk to indicate “ain’t it all so f*cking funny.” I have no idea how this actually tracks onto the view that other people have of me. Maybe because, despite all of the brain biopsies I take of my friends and families, my current ability to read thoughts is nil. Maybe because no one can truly understand the darkness beyond the eyes of another.

Whatever the case is, I know I slip sometimes. I get heated about something. I go off on some coauthor, situation, undergrad or life event. And when I do, that carefully selected mask, the tailored persona falls a bit. And when it does, I know there’s a glimpse that you can see of what lies beneath. And underneath the enforced geniality, there’s a mass of boiling annoyance and anger. I pretty constantly ride the edge of rage-fueled by caffeine and the vexations of graduate student life, I’m am so commonly in a state of seething anger.

I used to be worse. Growing up, I had a temper. Oh boy. Once I got into it, I was gone and there was no stopping me. I would rage and storm and shout and scream. Eventually, as part of that growing awareness most people possess, I learned that displaying said anger to the world was not the polite thing to do. Instead I would swallow it, shove it down and let it build, only to seep out later. I also found that by focusing, condensing and distilling my rage, I could channel it to better outlets or activities. I would just start doing things to spite the targets of my disdain and then, like any good Sith Lord, I could put my anger to good use as I felt the “rage flow through me.”

All of this is a lengthy set up for one of those pet peeves that would set me off as a younger person. I detest people who like to present trite little observations that allow them to “win” based on semantics. I know it may be you-apostrophe-re in this context, but that doesn’t change the fact that YOU’RE AN ASS. I know that there’s no such thing as centrifugal force, but it’s a useful convention on the merry-go-round. If all you have as a retort is quibbling over details while ignoring the thrust of the argument, there’s a special spot in hell I hope you come to inhabit.

Until I was, oh, say, 22, my favorite color was black. I wore black clothes, bought black items, wanted to paint my room black. (No I was not a goth). I just like the look of it, so clean and sharp-it’s gorgeous. When they steal the sundiver in the Hitchhiker books, they don’t steal something orange or white or green, they steal something so black it eats light that comes to it.

You might be starting to see the shape of my problem here.

So, if your first thought when you read “my favorite color was black” was to say “hey, black’s not a color”, I want you to do the following.
1. Pick up your keyboard
2. Slam it into your face
3. Repeat until unconscious

I know what it is and what it isn’t, but in the context of the question, it is a valid response. Absence of all color my ass.

Color

Blue

Read more on “Favorite Colors”.

His Astonishing Lack of Drawl

A friend’s recent post on accents and what they say about us brought to mind my personal issues with the spoken Queen’s Own.

I know I’m in peril of revealing myself through deductive disclosure and all. However, there are like no people here that have read all the posts and don’t already know who I am. Such a risk taker I am becoming.

I’m from Texas. Born and raised. On the playgrounds where I spent most of my days and so on (you already know the rest). This invariably fascinates people when they first get to know me. Apparently I don’t fit the mold of what a Texan is supposed to be, look like, sound like and think like. Well, unless I’m wearing my cowboy boots. I have a surprisingly abundance of Texas pride, provided that I’m not in Texas itself (it’s an elastic phenomenon). But while people always give me looks or crack jokes about it, the thing I almost always get first is “but you don’t sound like you are!”

I would like to say that I don’t know what someone from Texas is supposed to sound like, but sadly, as a cultural consumer, I do. We’re all supposed to speak slowly, with a lovable twang, folksy charm and possibly with a piece of straw sticking nonchalantly from our lips. That ain’t me. I’m a city dweller brought up by two parents not from Texas. Except for my loving use of the word “y’all” (Texas’ answer to the oversight in the English language of a second person plural pronoun), I sound like a national TV news anchor. I can sometimes, maybe, say a word or two that sounds like what people expect, but even that’s pushing it. I just happen to have very non-region specific diction (I think).

Everyone understands how annoying it is to be told you can’t be part of a group. But this is even worse. I’m being told that I don’t belong to a group that I actually am a member of, solely because I don’t fit their stereotypes of the group. It’s not like this with other ex-pat Texans. Whenever I run into one of those rare birds, we’ll talk about where each of us is from and maybe what chances the Cowboys have this season. That’s all it takes-we know. People in the group have no problem acknowledging our shared membership this simply. However, people who haven’t even flown over the place seem to think that by me not living up to their notions, I can’t be Texan.

I know it’s not meant as it comes across. I’m sure sometimes people say it to fill in those slightly awkward pauses in the getting to know you conversation. Part of it might even be a measure of praise, elevating me above what they believe Texans are like and supposed to be, though that’s infuriating in its own right. Given where I live and what I do, I’m guessing that it’s not shock that someone as lame as me could be associated with such a good place, but who knows?

Every subculture and social group has its cues for assessing membership, the shibboleths and secret handshakes. I think this particular case vexes me so because the membership is not being assessed by other members, but by people who don’t know anything about the club. It would be like if you were only able to get into an exclusive nightclub based on the votes of people walking by on the street who were oblivious of what was inside. They shouldn’t have a say, you’re already a member.

I speak plain. And I’m a Texan.

Deal with it.