On my way to work, I listened to the title cut of 40 miles north's cd Overjoyed. First line: "I'm overjoyed, overwhelmed, overcome by your love." "Overwhelmed"--now that's a word I've heard--and used--a lot lately. It's been an overwhelming semester. Students are overwhelmed; faculty are overwhelmed. Life is just overwhelming. I'm overwhelmed by class preparation, details that need administrative attention, students who are struggling, grading papers, keeping house, paying bills, housebreaking a dalmatian puppy--lots of very overwhelming things in life. What I'm not overwhelmed by is God's love, probably because I'm so busy being overwhelmed by everything else. I wonder: can one choose what to be overwhelmed by? Life is inherently overwhelming, and that's a good thing. If it weren't, the "intolerable ordinary" would be all the more intolerable. Without the overwhelming, life would have no drama, no challenge, no triumph, no meaning. But can we choose what will and will not be overwhelming? I've had to learn to choose--and refuse--stresses this semester. With department chair duties and Teaching Faculty Organization leadership responsibilities, I've had to face down some issues and deny them permission to stress me out. My friend Fredna has taught me a wonderfully useful response: "We're just going to have to pick something else to get upset about, because we're not going to get upset about this." Can I apply the same approach to the overwhelming that I'm learning to apply to the stressful? And can it work the other direction also--this piece of life, this phenomenon will be overwhelming. I give it permission, time, and space to upset my equilibrium, to blow me away. How does one make that happen?

posted by Annie 1:08 PM

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"No, really, I just can't do that." He was talking to a woman, another passenger on the American Airlines shuttle bus between the main terminal and the satellite terminal. Just an ordinary guy and an ordinary woman. He had a seat, she came on board and stood. He got up and offered her his chair. "Thanks, but this is fine." "No, really, I just can't do that." He stayed standing; she said "Thanks" and sat. An unremarkable incident that still deserves remarks, especially because of its proximity to another incident I witnessed yesterday at the University of Delaware where I was attending a conference. A young student (male) held the door open for another woman who was attending the conference. She's middle-aged, not elderly by any stretch, but has beautiful gray hair. She wondered what his conduct said about his attitude toward gray-haired women. Nothing at all. No, friend, he wasn't commenting on your age, and he wasn't insulting your gender or challenging your feminist equality. Neither was the guy on the airport bus. Their mommas just raised them right, that's all. When we landed in Dallas this afternoon and began our trek through the airport, I saw crape myrtles out the windows and witnessed southern courtesy inside the bus. Gentle beauty. Welcome home. Glad to be back. It's not that holding a door or giving up a seat is such a big deal. It's just a small gesture of respect and courtesy. We still prize that here in the South. Kids raised right say "Ma'am" and "Sir," and they mean it respectfully because their mommas (and dads) taught them that's the way to address someone. Age isn't an issue--adults call each other "ma'am" and "sir" to show simple respect for other people. My students from the West or the North often find that a bit archaic or even wonder if there isn't a sneer lurking somewhere in the syntax. (When my Chicagoan-turned-Californian mother-in-law first moved to Texas and my kids called her ma'am, she heard sarcasm where there was none. In Chicago, she explained to me, those words were disrespectful.) But I hope those students imbibe a bit of southern courtesy with their English and business or mechanical engineering. At the same time, I hope we learn from them a bit about expressions of courtesy and behaviors of respect in their parts of the country or world. At the risk of sounding like a cliche', I'd like to say that this world would be a gentler, kinder place if we were more intentional about treating each other with simple respect and courtesy. That's a good thing. So when someone holds the door, just say "thanks" and walk through. Then watch for your chance to hold it for someone else, regardless or age or gender.

posted by Annie 11:00 PM

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Newark, Delaware, specifically the University of Delaware campus is the origin site for this post and the place for today's rethinking of students' placement into composition courses. I attended the all-day Assessment Institute that is part of the annual conference of the Council of Writing Program Administrators.

I come away with more questions than answers, but that's a good thing. When I began, I wasn't even sure where to begin asking questions! The task seems overwhelming, but I'm more convinced than ever that our placement system at LeTourneau does work for us. Our method isn't a theoretically-popular one among composition theorists, but oddly enough, more universities use it than want to admit! How does placement fit into the larger picture of program assessment? How is it driven by (rather than drive) curriculum design? Those are the questions I'm pondering.

Tonight, though, I miss Ken, home, and my doggies. New family member Kuuipo and I have been bonding, and the separation seems a wide gulf.  

posted by Annie 6:50 PM

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"What?"

That's what everyone asks. Her name is Kuuipo. She's eight and a half weeks old, and she's a dalmatian rescue puppy. She's also the newest member of our family.

Kuuipo means "Sweetheart" in Hawaiian, and she is. I think the name is actually pronounced with a whole lot of syllables, like Koo-oo-ee-po, and I'm really not sure where the accent goes. We sort of run it together and call her Kweepo. Even at that, when I took her to the Balloon Glow Alumni dinner tonight at LeTourneau's hangar out at the airport, one little boy who asked her name looked at me like I had mortally offended him. He just glared at me and then walked off.

Kuuipo's mom was owner-surrendered (whatever that means--the shelter doesn't give details) to a North Texas Humane Society. On the day she was scheduled to be "euthanized" (read murdered because an owner probably didn't care enough or couldn't be bothered), the Dalmatian Rescue of North Texas (DRNT) found out about her and got her out of the shelter. About a week later, they discovered she was pregnant. She's a small lady but still had twelve puppies. Two were too small to live, but ten are healthy and playful. Kuuipo decided she wanted to come and live with me. I played with all the puppies and held the three females, but Kuuipo was the one who chewed on my ears, gave me kisses, and ran back to me after I set her down. She picked me, so I picked her.

Notice to readers: First, please pay attention to the fact that dalmatian is spelled with a "tian" not a "tion." Okay, that's a pet peeve. I used to have a Hotmail account with dalmatian as part of the username. I gave the address to a group of students, who promptly sent e-mails to someone else with the same username but spelled incorrectly. Second, if you take a dog home, he or she is family and is yours for life. I like the way the DRNT puts it: These dogs need to find their forever homes. Dalmatians are eager, active, willful, one-person dogs. They tend not to be family dogs and are not usually great with kids. They are deeply loyal and loving. My dalmatian Hero has been one of my best friends for over nine years. My other dogs are too, but they are more family dogs. Hero thinks of herself as my dog (or maybe thinks of me as her person). She follows me everywhere and pitches a fit whenever a door is closed between us. Ann of DRNT says, "If you don't want velcro, you don't want dalmatian."

But if you don't mind being followed around at close range and having a dog nudge open the shower door every 2 to 3 minutes just to make sure you're still there and still okay, you might be a good dal pal. You just can't beat a dalmatian for love and loyalty--two virtues we could use a lot more of in this world.

Lots of folks seem to get dogs--including dalmatians--without thinking through the commitments or obligarions involved, and then those dogs end up in shelters or with rescue organizations. If you want a dog, rescues are a good source, and Dalmatian Rescue of North Texas (DRNT) is a great place to start. Their Website links to lots of rescue organizations.

posted by Annie 10:00 PM

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Fifty lashes for Sears. Their new Home Center catalog features this ghastly sentence on page 75: "Oval pool (C) has Trimline supports that only extends 9" from the sidewall." This catalog writer has real talent: a subject-verb agreement error and a misplaced modifier in one short sentence! Although the Web site corrects the agreement problem, it keeps the misplaced modifier. I saved the catalog for Querida. It will be a good target for her righteous anger at grammaticaliens.

posted by Annie 9:39 AM

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Spring break--what Eliot calls a blessing from heaven--is over. The few hours of Sunday night left don't seem to count--my brain is trying (trying. . . trying. . .) to go back to school. I am blessed, beyond all desrving, but sometimes I don't feel that way. This week has been one of those times. It hasn't been a break I'll remember fondly. I planted a Bradford pear tree beside Chester. With each spring's blossoms, I'll remember.

posted by Annie 6:59 PM

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Thirteen years ago, Chester became one of my best friends. School was closed due to rain and flooding, and a few of us were on campus mucking out. When I stepped outside, I saw a small dog crouched under a tree near the road. Whenever a large truck went by, he ran out barking and wagging his tail. Each time one failed to stop, he would slink back under the tree. He was cold, wet, hungry, and afraid, having learned from someone not to trust. Hunger won over fear; a meat sandwich left in the refrigerator tempted him beyond resistance. A full tummy, a bowl of water, and a warm towel later, we were friends. Chester was sick. A couple of days after we brought him home, he stiffened up and whimpered when he tried to move. The vet diagnosed a crippling but treatable illness, and Chester proved the miracles of modern antibiotics. Despite occasional relapses, he grew strong and healthy. He has chased, caught, and shredded hundreds of tennis balls. He got his picture in the paper when I wrote to the editor nominating him as a better candidate than David Duke, an ex-KKK member who made a brief bid for the presidency. (I guess I should have pursued his nomination. He's far more ethical than the beast that won and spent the next eight years in the White House.) He has slept beside my bed for the last thirteen years. He moved with us into this house. I've never lived here without him. That was a long time ago. Chester's once bright, intelligent eyes are now bleary with cataracts. He can't hear me call him and doesn't awaken at the smell of food held half an inch from his nose. The stiff joints that have plagued him intermittently since puppyhood have settled into persistent, crippling arthritis. He used to be so embarrassed--even ashamed--if he had an "accident" in the house. Now, he has trouble controlling himself and sometimes doesn't even seem to realize that he has left us "presents" on the carpet. Everyone tells me it's time to let him go. I was raised to deny anger ("Just get a hold of yourself.") and grief ("Just keep smiling."), so even at my age, I'm a relative neophyte at dealing with those emotions. Maybe that's why I'm struggling so deeply with the decision we have finally made. I'm angry--angry that life ends in death, angry at pain, angry at people who offer pithy platitudes as if they could solace a grief unshared and not understood. I have a friend who believes that dogs have souls and go to heaven. I wish I could believe that too, but I can't. My grandmother died last summer. She was 100 years plus a week old, and I never shed a tear. Death released her from an imprisoning body that had robbed her of all freedom and dignity. Heaven is better, a joyful reunion with her husband, daughter, mother, father, and Jesus, whom she loved (loves) more than anyone else. I miss her, but I could not cry for her. I can't seem to stop crying for Chester. I'm drawing a contrast here, not a comparison. There's no issue here of whether I love my dog more than my grandmother or any other such foolishness. Love takes many forms and can't be categorized or arranged into a continuum. I knew how to understand and cope with grandma's death; I don't know how to undestand Chester's. For a long time, we prayed for Grandma's release; as I said, heaven is better. When the time came, she went to sleep and just didn't wake up. I wish Chester could do the same. Somehow, that seems more right than having final sleep come from a veterinary IV tube. Maybe Chester wants to just go to sleep. I wish he could tell me. Heck, even I want to go to sleep and just be unconscious for awhile. The part of me that tends toward depression waxes strong. Love means risk, and I understand (perhaps a little better) people who don't let themselves get attached to dogs. I can't do that; my dogs have always been some of my best friends. Chester is one of four canine members of the family. The risk is great; the reward greater. I wouldn't want to have missed Chester's love and friendship for fear of risk, but I have to be honest about the risk now that it's real. I'm angry, and I hurt to my very soul. I feel too paralyzed to even think about the conference papers I should be working on. Instead, I work outside--pulling weeds, raking leaves, pruning trees--as if sweat could purchase solace. In my multi-ethnic lit class, we read a poem by a Native American author who claims that her language has no word for goodbye. They speak of later, another time, another place. I wish I could make myself believe that, but denial is ludicrous. (Just two days ago, I listened to my parents assuring a doctor that grandma was lucid to the end. This is the same grandma who hadn't known me for over a year and who asked if the bearded man walking down the nursing home hallway was Abraham or Isaac.) I have to deal in truth--in the truth that this is goodbye. It's a real word. I just don't know how to say it.

posted by Annie 6:48 PM

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