Author: nicole

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Learning about Autoethnography

I am a novice narratologist. I’m interested in the stories we live and tell, and how we can ultimately learn from them. In my work as an independent scholar, I keep coming across the term autoethnography. I don’t know exactly what it is, but it seems, at first glance, very much in line with my immediate interest in interrogating my own personal narrative. My next step is to co-inquire with others as they do the same.

In March, I wrote this as I was theorizing about my connection to personal narratives and coming to understand life as text:

We have a say. Writing gives voice to thoughts and makes them visible. In their visibility they become tangible: A memory becomes a guiding light. An amorphous thought becomes a pathway, a next step. It becomes something I can touch and do. Through writing, thoughts can become action.

Today I’m reading an essay on autoethnography by Stacey Holman Jones. She says:

These endeavors {performance ethnography, performative writing, and personal performance narratives} point to how personal stories become a means for interpreting the past, translating and transforming contexts, and envisioning a future.

Now, I still can’t say for sure what autoethnography is, but it certainly seems as if I’m on a good track. Stay tuned.

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Deep Sigh

When state and local governments run out of money, they have to make cuts. No surprise there.

The problem is, governments are in charge of things many of us value. Like say roads, fire departments, schools. I could go on, but the latest WTF moment in local funding cuts comes to us from Topeka, Kansas. Topeka: A place where it is currently okay to engage in domestic violence because it’s too expensive to prosecute cases. Yes, you read correctly ladies and gentlemen. Your spouse or loved one can beat your ass, you can call the police (are there any left? government pays their salaries too after all) and the police can respond, “Well, good luck, but there’s nothing we can do.”

The good news is that this controversial measure is “under review” which means the final decision has not yet been made (shout out of the abusers who were in jail but got sent home in the interim). In other words, the city may figure out something else is too expensive to prosecute instead. Or maybe they’ll try the Coos Bay solution and cut school to four days to make ends meet. (Way to win the future).

Some people (a minority these days) get testy at the mere mention of raising revenue (taxes) for government services. But really? Is this the level of sacrifice we’re willing to put up with?.

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Personal Record

Today I claim total victory. I ran a personal best, smashing all of my previous times for an average pace below 10 minutes a mile.

This is huge news for someone who never thought she’d run distance for fun, and who once believed the occasional dip below a 12-minute mile was cause for celebratory cheers.

Typical pace from earlier this year.

And this, in a nutshell, is one of the things I most love about running.

Running is a daily opportunity to set tangible goals and work toward them. Funny thing about running – it brings you face to face with reality. Sometimes the weather isn’t cooperating; do you run in the rain or sweltering sun anyway? Sometimes your body isn’t cooperating; do you wrap the knee or rest it? Sometimes time isn’t on your side; should you cut your run in half or just wait until another day? Or maybe the laundry has piled up; do you wear those uncomfortable shorts and hike them up the whole time, or…?

Decisions. It’s extremely rare when I can say my run and the stars are in complete alignment. Despite the snooze button, my failure to wash clothes, Mother Nature’s quirks or anything else, I often decide to run anyway.

And maybe today’s run sucked: I was slow, it was hard to breathe, I was hot, cold, etc. Maybe today’s run was perfect: I hit my target pace, I had great form, it was a glorious temperature with a refreshing breeze. But true glory lies within the confines of whatever the circumstances are. In other words, no matter what, I have the opportunity to do my best – realizing that “best” may look very different under varying circumstances.

Today’s circumstances were pretty favorable. And in the past week I’ve surprised myself, shaving two and a half minutes off my “typical” total time. For the first time since I began running over two years ago, the 10-minute average pace was within my grasp!

Monday’s run was literally a couple of seconds shy of the 10-minute pace. I snatched defeat from the jaws of victory as I yanked my skort up and down throughout the run, finally stopping to give it a good pull.

This is what a wardrobe malfunction will do.

Going out this morning, my aim was what it always is – to have fun and do my best. Honestly, I didn’t think I had it in me to top that 10:01 pace today. Usually, I run fastest after more than a couple of days of rest. When I touched the gate at the end of my run and stopped the clock, I cheered my time. 39:10 (9:48 average pace). Total victory!

Now that’s what I call a personal record!

I have no idea what my next run will be like. Will it be warm or chilly? Will my knee be irritable? Will I add back all the time I’ve shaved? I don’t really know. But I do know that I’ll enjoy my run, and I’ll do my best, whatever that means at the moment. In the end, I can’t win in the past. I can’t win in the future. I can only win in the present moment. And so can you.

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Now Reading

Cognitive Psychology and InstructionCognitive Psychology and Instruction by Roger Bruning

So far so good. I love this kind of stuff and have since elementary school (Not kidding). At any rate, thus far I find the material accessible and interesting. Definitely not light reading, but a good review for those who’ve had some introduction to the topic. Also good for educational researchers wanting to better understand (and design research to test/improve) instructional strategies. Lastly it’s a good foundational text exploring principles that learning designers need in order to be most effective. Still early on in the book, so we’ll see if my thoughts change later.

View all my reviews

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Letter to My Sister, a Soldier (or) Love is a Revolutionary Act

Note: I wrote this a few months ago – late winter, early spring. I sat on it for weeks and worked it a bit in June. Not sure why I’ve not posted it until now…

For the past several weeks, my flight has departed from or returned to the international terminal of the Atlanta airport. This, despite the fact that I was only traveling to and from Cleveland, of all places. Each week I have been struck – overcome really – by the abundance of soldiers in this terminal, dressed in their telltale camouflage. They’re men and sometimes women of all colors, sizes, ages. Sometimes on phones, sometimes on computers, sometimes deplaning from parts unknown, but oftentimes sitting. Waiting.

Today, however, I was struck by you.

Now for sure you are not the first female soldier I’ve ever seen. You are not the first black soldier I’ve ever seen. You are not the first black woman soldier I’ve ever seen. But today you captured my attention. Or more accurately, my heart.

As soon as I entered the concourse bathroom, I noticed you – slight, brown skin, dark hair slicked back in a ponytail. You looked eerily like me. Not babyishly young like some of the boys seem to look. Not particularly old like a career soldier on the verge of retirement perhaps; but about my age, maybe a little younger, a tad slimmer. You were going through your toiletries. It seemed you were unpacking. Repacking. Shifting. Transferring things from one pouch to another. Organizing perhaps. I don’t know, but I was moved.

She is me, I thought.

I felt my heart bursting with the overwhelming desire to embrace you. It was as if I were a vessel and Goddess wanted to send you a message of love.

I resisted it at first and headed to a stall. Yet I rushed, hoping you’d still be there when I finished, even though I really didn’t know if I had the courage to approach you. When I emerged, I washed my hands slowly, decidedly shy, stalling for time as other women entered the bathroom.

This is so silly, I said to myself, heart racing, belly full of butterflies. It’s just a hug.

You, still arranging. Me, hanging back, primping in the mirror a few paces to your right. Breath, shallow. Feet, cement blocks. I silently hurried the other women along. I didn’t want to sound crazy, I guess, to them or to you. The voice, the feeling, the knowingness – urged me, You have to do this.

I applied more burgundy lip gloss. Retied the matching scarf at my neck. Pulled my black dress straight. Gathering courage. Passing time.

Finally, coast clear, deep inhale, I approached you.

Excuse me?

You turned to me, face and heart open. Curious. My words tumbled out, a hurried explanation, an apology, I just have the urge to give you a hug. The words barely free of my lips, you threw your arms around me. And we shared a moment. Spirit embodied in flesh. Life to life. Heart to heart.

Throats tight, eyes swimming, we echoed words of thanks to each other. And then, you pulled away, barely above a whisper, You’re about to make me cry in this bathroom. You shook your head, eyes down, turned away. More organizing, packing, shifting.

As soon as I saw you, I had the urge to hug you. I couldn’t leave this bathroom without doing it. My parting words a confession, tossed out gracelessly over my shoulder. And I left, plodding down the terminal corridor, choking back tears, heart full, exhale.

I replayed the moment again and again along my walk to the escalator. I hoped you knew that all I felt in that moment was love. All I wanted for you in that moment was love.

Not fear. Not shame. Not worry. Not doubt. None of those things a person normally feels. I just wanted you to know…love.

That moment we shared was a moment of revolution.
Because loving a stranger is a revolutionary act.
Loving a soldier is a revolutionary act.
Loving my sister is a revolutionary act.
Loving myself is a revolutionary act.
I saw me, in you, and I loved us both.

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Now Reading

Understanding and Promoting Transformative Learning: A Guide for Educators of AdultsUnderstanding and Promoting Transformative Learning: A Guide for Educators of Adults by Patricia Cranton

I’ve just started, but I’m enjoying Cranton’s book. She has a readable, accessible style and she’s doing a nice job at integrating her discussion of theory and practice. As an outsider to adult education who finds kinship with transformative learning for many reasons, it’s nice to find a primer with both heft and practicality.

View all my reviews

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Wounding. A 20-year lesson.

A thief made off with a prized possession
Me
Snatched from sacred promises of love everlasting
Held hostage
Imprisoned
A cage of my own hand
Tortured
by hurt invisible,
choking out life, love

Twenty years I spent
Captive to that pain
Yet blind
Ignorant of my own walls
Fences

Wondering why you couldn’t reach me
Wouldn’t reach out to me
Feel me
Know me

None had eyes for well-hidden pain
Buried
And I with it
Trapped
Cowering behind a guarded heart
Safe
From you

Wishes escaped on wings of prayers
Floating beyond boundaries
of consciousness
Sneaking through cracks
Disguised as discarded hopes
Rising above barriers
Taking flight
A call
A song
in my key
Imprisoned heart unlocked
Responding
Wishes as balm
As pathway to freedom
Story as star
Illuminating the road home

Love

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No Place Like Home

My cousin got married last fall. Like many weddings, it was an occasion for family and friends to reminisce, reconnect, and bond. The wedding reception found me tucked away in a corner with a few cousins, most notably, the beautiful, often elusive, V.  She inquired about my dissertation defense, mere days away, and my future plans. At that point I only knew I had to move. The sooner the better.

Home, Not Home
Athens had never been home to me, and Atlanta, although a great city in many ways, didn’t feel all that homey to me either. That I was born and raised there was immaterial. It wasn’t “home.”

V, a flight attendant, gushed about her love of NYC. It was her favorite city. She felt like herself there. Despite her world travels, there was no place she’d rather be. I wondered where my NYC would be. I knew it would be some place with a mild climate, near beaches, but that’s as far as I could figure.

Sunrise at Pass-A-Grille Beach

Border Crosser
I finished my Master’s degree 11 years ago. Since then I have moved seven times (four of those between GA and FL). Most of those moves were one and two year stints, and I usually knew they were temporary going in. I realized I was closer to finding home a year ago when I left St. Petersburg to return to Athens, and found myself aching for the luscious green grass, the humid, salty air, and the calming beaches. But even though there were many things I liked, even loved, about St. Pete, I still wasn’t ready to call it home.

A few weeks after the wedding, I graduated and found myself “in between.” I don’t do in between well. Job hunting and city hunting, I felt I had no clarity on next steps. Eventually it all took a toll on me and left me feeling kind of blah. Finally, I made some decisions, and in true form, the universe responded in kind. Within a few days I had a job offer, a clear path, and a new city to try out.

Where the Heart Is
This move was the first one during which I felt I were moving toward a new life. It felt permanent. Real. Settled.

I knew I was on to something when I had to visit my “hometown” (Atlanta) a few days after my move. Traveling to the airport, I was a child being dragged inside from the playground. No! Don’t wanna!

At the end of my three days there, I smiled inside, happy to be back on the plane heading back home, even though home was just a few days old.

Everyone who visits my new digs mentions how I seem poised to start a new life here. To them it feels like home.

To me too.

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From One Writer to Another

After a multi-year drought, I finally have some time to dig into fiction again. Reading it has been refreshing and even restorative in surprising ways. A recent treasure was Tayari Jones‘ Silver Sparrow. It was a delicious, complex and emotional read, although the purpose of this post is not to review the book.

I met Tayari in person last night, as she read from her book and answered questions from fans and writers assembled at the Athens-Clarke County public library. She shared great nuggets and pushed back hard against the notion of a writer’s life belonging only to those of privilege.

Author Tayari Jones

The Four-Hour Writing Week
“People who work everyday have stories to tell too,” she explained. There’s a myth that “real” and “published” writers spend all day writing and have unlimited amounts of time to devote to their craft. This is false. A writer is one who writes. Tayari has a job aside from her writing (she’s a professor at Rutgers Newark). “You can finish a novel writing four hours a week,” she said. It may take you a bit longer – she estimates it takes her about two years – but it’s doable. “It’s like going to the gym. You have to find the time.”

No Aspiring Writers
Unpublished writers often call themselves “aspiring writers,” but in fact, publishing is not the mark by which “true” writers are measured. You should not call yourself an aspiring writer, she urges. “Claim it!” If you fancy yourself a writer, you are. “You can say you are an unpublished writer, but you are a writer.”

Dealing with Disappointment
Would-be professional writers have to be able to deal with disappointment. The truth is, a great piece of writing may not be published, or may take a long and windy road to get there. But don’t commit to the publishing, commit to the writing. As you commit to your writing, opportunities will open up. But it’s important to know, the writer’s life isn’t a glamorous one.

Writer’s Block Does Not Exist
Tayari doesn’t like to talk or think about writer’s block. It’s like insomnia, she explained. When you can’t sleep, you make it worse by looking at the clock, counting back the number of hours left before you must wake up, and so on. In reality, if you just relax, eventually you will fall asleep.

The same is true of writer’s block. We make a big deal about it. We name it. We embrace it. We complain about it. Tayari’s solution: just write anyway. Eventually, you’ll move past it. When you find it difficult to write, it’s usually in response to some external pressure, she explained. You’re worrying about what “they” may say about your writing, for instance. Ignore “them.” It’s your story to tell. Commit to it. Write anyway.

Nicole & Tayari in Athens

On Finding the Perfect Idea
Tayari compares finding the right idea to finding the right mate. “I spend a lot of time on bad dates with ideas.” She tries things out to see if they work or don’t work. She writes her way through them, sometimes committing countless pages to the effort. But once she realizes the idea isn’t working, she lets it go and tries anew with another. “But when I get a good one, I’m spoken for.” It’s better that way, she thinks. She loves the idea of waking up and knowing exactly what she’s working on for the next year or two. Coming up with ideas is for the birds, but committing to, and writing through a good one is the sweet spot.

Keep Writing
It was pleasure to meet Tayari in person. I learned a great deal from her talk and felt inspired and encouraged to continue my writing journey. Her new book, Silver Sparrow, really was a great read, but she won’t call herself a gifted writer. Instead she said, “I was given a story to tell and the means to tell it. I have to honor that.”

Every word on paper becomes a tiny step forward, so here’s to the next one.