Sighs from the Unemployment Carousel

After several years of watching my husband ride the unemployment carousel, you'd think I would be used to it by now. I don't remember what year it started--2007? 2009? And I have lost track of how many jobs he's had. Between the effect of the economy on the shipping industry, a few unfortunate mistakes, and the reality of approaching the age of 50, it has been hard for my husband to find a job and keep a job.

Chronic unemployment leaves scars, even on spouses. When my husband lost yet another job early this week, it occurred to me that I might never recover. He had been at this last job for three months, and I had just started to feel hopeful about our future for the first time in years. I was daydreaming again, thinking about doing some household projects that cost a little money, and generally feeling fairly content. But it hadn't been enough time to build up my reserves. When I saw his number on my phone at a time he would've been at work, I found myself hoping someone had died because I just couldn't bear it again. It was the most despair I'd felt in some time; not only did my husband lose a job, but I had experienced the anguish of finally feeling hopeful again, only to have that hope demolished. Each time, it gets harder to learn to hope again.

He has already had a couple interviews and has a follow-up interview next week. But I don't have it in me to be a supportive wife. I don't want to know the name of the company, and I don't really want to talk about it--even though it is what he needs to do. It feels like putting myself in the line of fire and volunteering to have any glimmer of hope attacked. I just can't do it.

I'm sighing again, trying to resign myself to difficulties and emotional transition. Again and again and again.

Why I Can't Read *Fifty Shades of Gray*

My first time hearing about Fifty Shades of Gray was when a friend asked me if I liked S&M books--so no matter what else I ever learn about it, that's how I will think of it. And that's why I can't read it.th
I have nothing against S&M. As long as no one is hurt and everyone consents, the great range of human sexual behavior is worth exploring and celebrating. But whenever I hear people talk about this book, I think of a student named Christina.

Years ago, she showed up in my developmental writing class. Although she was only nineteen years old, she seemed to carry a great many more years on her. She left home at fourteen to escape a stepfather who was too interested in her. By nineteen, she referred to herself as "retired from the entertainment industry." Translation: she had been a stripper, lap dancer, and occasional hooker.

When I knew her, Christina lived with a man in his forties. One day she came in wearing an expensive leather jacket, saying that her guy had bought it for her because she was good at the mall. When I asked her what that meant, she said it was because she looked hot and other guys looked her over but she didn't look back.

At the end of class one morning, she gathered up her materials and announced that she was headed home because her live-in guy would be gone. A student and I both commented on how nice it is to have some time home alone. She then said (in front of our class and the students coming in for the following class) that she wouldn't be alone because her boyfriend was coming over. She explained that she needed the boyfriend because her live-in wouldn't spank her, and she couldn't help it that she was kinky and needed that to enjoy herself.

At nineteen, this young woman had a poor sense of her value in the world and had been jaded by previous sexual encounters. How can a nineteen-year-old have such specific sexual needs already?

When my friend first told me about the Shades of Gray books and that the guy needed S&M, all I could think about was the young woman who was rewarded for being good at the mall and who felt a need to be spanked.

If she had ever seemed happy, I probably would have forgotten her as anything more than a story about what a student said after class one day. But she never seemed happy. Her career goal was to have a corner office with a big plant. And the entire four and a half months. I knew her, she never ever smiled. Ever.

Every time I think about reading this book about a man with specific sexual needs, I find myself thinking about Christina Who Never Smiled. And it makes me incredibly sad to think about all the broken women we have in our world. And then I just can't bring myself to care about a male character who wants to have sex with an innocent young woman.

Lessons from Food Poisoning

I recently spent a full week suffering from food poisoning. Here is what I learned:

• Don't eat raw cookie dough.
• Gatorade really can keep you hydrated.
• Always buy 2-ply toilet paper.

A Year of Blessing

One year and three days ago, I made a decision that changed my life. I decided to apply for a job that would take me away from the classroom.

As someone who cherishes anniversaries as occasions to reflect and ruminate, I've naturally been spending time in my mind with all that has passed in my professional life since I made this choice. Interestingly, the changes have been ones that have been so natural that it's hard to start to articulate what those changes have been and how different my work life is now.

What I find myself thinking about the most is the actual process of making the decision. I loved teaching. At times I was a weak teacher, frustrated by the piles of papers or overwhelmed by other pieces of my life. But when I was "on," I was a great teacher. I loved composition studies. I loved coming up with assignment ideas and learning activities and thinking of how all the pieces of the class would work together in accomplishing the course goals. I loved my colleagues. I loved my campus. At times, I am still stunned that I found the courage to leave and that it ever even occurred to me that leaving was a possibility. Why would someone leave a job and people she loves?

I am reminded, frequently, of why I went into education in the first place. It was never about the academics for me. Not ever, even though  I loved that, too. Rather, it was about making a difference. I remember very distinctly sitting in the relatively new student lounge at Highland Community College in Freeport, Illinois. That year, I had found that a lot of new college students would approach me as an older sister, asking for advice about things from relationships to coursework to picking a major. I remember that the sunlight was streaming in through the windows, casting an orange glow over the lounge, and I thought, "This. This is what I want to do. I want to make a difference in people's lives."

The only skill I thought I had was writing; therefore, writing--and the teaching of writing--was the tool I would use to accomplish my purpose in life. It was the instrument of my future.

So I went to college, preparing to be a middle school English teacher and then shifting toward teaching college composition. Yet I always felt different from my colleagues. I was interested in student development and understanding how their learning of college writing strategies intersected with the other aspects of their development. I sometimes would hear my colleagues say things like, "That's the job of student services," or "Why would I worry about that when we have counselors?" or "But what about the purity of the discipline itself? Instead of worrying about why students are struggling, let's blame them for being bad students." (Okay, no one actually said that last one in my presence. Exactly.) I always felt like I was in a parallel job, that my professional life was completely different from that of my colleagues--even in cases where on the surface, things looked the same.

When I sent my application in one year ago, I thought I would just be getting a spruce-up of my life with some re-energizing. I had no idea that I was about to enter the world where I finally get to do what I really, really wanted to do when I grew up: make a difference. I have never been one to make friends easily, yet I did so where I am. I am surrounded by women, with all the nurturing and mood swings and emotional nuances that inhabit every cell in my soul. I am part of midwifing other women from wherever they were to the women they are meant to be next. I have cried at work and held others while they've cried. I hug every single day--sometimes those I barely know and sometimes those I care about deeply.

The school's mission is to transform the world my educating women. To my great joy and blessing, it has transformed me as well.

In the Mind of Jerry Sandusky

People are saying he’s a monster. I don’t completely agree, although he has done monstrous things that damage people’s lives.

We ask ourselves how he couldn’t know the effect he was having and, if he did, we ask ourselves why he continued doing it. Those are good questions, and we can never know the answers. These questions have been on my mind for several years, and I have a few thoughts that are far from being answers—but they are on my mind a great deal right now.

I want for us to understand how this happens. At what point does something like this begin, and how on earth can we interfere with the process once it starts? I admit a certain amount of compassion for the Jerry Sandusky’s of the world. I can’t imagine that someone lives this live without having experienced a major snafu in his own development. I wonder how much a person can really admit to himself about what he’s doing, and I wonder what that does to someone’s sense of soul and life to be so constantly deluding himself.

I keep thinking about what leads to the first instance of something as horrific as child sexual abuse. I’ve spent time with friends and family members who are all too familiar with child sexual abuse. I’ve known people who have been survivors as well as those who crossed those boundaries and engaged in sexual behavior (or behavior that is potentially sexual) with people they shouldn’t have.

One person I know always referred to himself as a late bloomer, not really aware or interested sexually until late middle school. At that time, he realized he was interested in the guys rather than the girls. Now, for most of us, middle school is a time when we can practice what it means to be romantic and sexual. We might flirt, talk with our friends about our crushes, enjoy daydreaming about that first kiss, and so on. And we are constantly surrounded by it at school. We see others learning the dance of romance, and our relationship skills develop right alongside all the other things we are learning to navigate as future adults.

So imagine someone who realizes that there is a different attraction. If he is surrounded by heterosexual conversation and activity and if it isn’t okay to talk about his real love interests at home or with friends, then perhaps this part of his self becomes stunted and delayed. Maybe it takes him years to come to terms with his sexual orientation. And by the time this happens, his relationship self can only then go back to where he was in middle school, when it all started. And his attraction picks up just where it left off—with middle school aged boys. Or maybe a woman grows up in a very sheltered home. By the time she is out on her own and finally allows herself to begin thinking about having romantic relationships, her attraction is to those who are high school age, just as she was when she first had a romantic interest in anyone.

Imagine someone who had an inappropriate or unhealthy introduction to sexual desire—maybe it involved pain or betrayal or happened at a too-young age. For many of us, when there is pain, we try to heal. And, sadly, sometimes we do this by repeating the behavior until it turns out right. Illogical, but true. But I’ve seen it happen far too many times. One of my long-time-ago friends had this thing for bad boys. She dated guys who’d been in jail, guys who did drugs, guys who somehow were always living life on the edge. Every single time, she got hurt. The logical response would be for her to say, “Oops. Bad choice. I better try something different next time.” Instead, she would think, “Wow. Not again. I’m such a failure because I could make pattern xyz work. In order to prove myself worthy, I need to tackle xyz again until I figure out how to do it right.” And that’s exactly what she did, again and again and again. One effort resulted in a 15-year marriage that ended in divorce. And the last time I talked with her, she called me, drunk on appletinis, to cry about how she was such a failure with guys after the first post-divorce bad boy dumped her. It is hard to break a habit, even a bad one.

From all accounts I’ve read, Jerry Sandusky’s perception was that he was in a relationship with each of the boys he assaulted. It sounds sick to us from the outside to think that a 60-something man would actually think he was in a real relationship with a young teen. But if his mind was stuck in a constant rewind of his own young teen years, then from his perspective, he was just trying to pick up where he left off—and when it didn’t work, he got stuck in the cycle of constant do-overs.

Perhaps in the case of person who has molested multiple children, each time it is an attempt to tap into a purity he has been missing for so long. Each time is an attempt to recreate something that had gone wrong and hope for a better ending this time around.

It’s hard to admit that we’ve done something wrong—and each time, it gets harder and harder. The darker the image, the harder it is to truly see what is staring at us in the mirror. Serial attempts at getting it right, each leading to seeing pain and distrust in the young person’s eyes…how many of us would have the courage to shake ourselves free of this obsession, the obsession to finally get it right? Each time we dig the hole, it gets harder and harder to climb out of. And denial is a powerful thing.

Somehow, somewhere, Jerry Sandusky started something wrong. Did it start with someone doing something wrong to him? Did it begin with a repressed homosexual desire in his own youth? Was he molested at some point?

It certainly is easier to draw black and white lines all over the place. We name someone a monster or predator, because it makes him “other” and allows us to feel disconnected from this person who has caused so much horrific pain. But people are complex creatures, and there’s a lot more grey area. Did he set out with the goal of causing pain to boys? Or did he set out with the goal of trying to connect with boys to have the relationships he craved in his life?

People say he’s a predator. But in some way, aren’t we all? In our quest for relationships and an effort to feel healed and whole, we do many things that can seem predatory. The man who calls a woman to ask for a date. The woman who parks her car next to her co-worker so they can just “happen” to run into each other after work.  The girl who texts a boy she likes.  The human who sees another soul—one that reminds him of his inner self, the one that needs to heal—and tries to help that other soul see a connection. The woman who finds herself alone with a person and yearns for her first kiss and takes it from someone she feels is more than a friend—even though the person has not yet crossed into the age of adulthood.

We need to work harder at understanding how these things happen so we can work on healing and making it stop. Are the courageous Sandusky survivors being provided with counseling, to help be sure they have healthy development? Are there others who try to tell us in some way that they have an attraction that crosses boundaries in an unhealthy way, and do we have systems in place to protect children as well as to protect these individuals from themselves?

I feel great compassion and heartache for those who have survived child sexual abuse. That does not mean that I am not able to also feel compassion for Sandusky and for others who have done these monstrous things to children and teenagers.  Compassion for all starts with trying to understand the perpetrators, from their own point of view. Only when we speak their language can we begin to talk them down off the ledge and prevent them from damaging so many other lives.

How I Imagined a Date with a Dead President

Growing older is full of surprises. I never, ever know where my mind will go, and I'm not always sure what to do once it gets there.

As my parents prepare for a big relocation, my mom is slowly purging their house of things they no longer need or use. Last Sunday, we were all sent to the basement to peruse a table of goodies my mom had for us to hopefully take home. I brought home a 48-page book about America, written in 1943 by a man whose son was being sent overseas as part of World War II. His son had been surprised by how little his fellow soldiers knew about why America was so great. Hmm. Maybe the Greatest Generation was, well, kind of like the rest of us.

Most of the book contains information about the presidents. Reading the cause of death for many of them is interesting. George Washington died of laryngitis, John Adams of old age, Thomas Jefferson of intestinal trouble. A few presidents down the list, we found that John Tyler died of a bilious attack. I don't even know what that is. The book also includes a copy of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, a list of facts about all 48 states, and plenty of information on military and service support organizations.

I've always been fascinated to read about history as seen by those in history. We were in the middle of a war, and the write-up of then-president FDR was full of patriotic support and vigor. George Washington was the only president deemed worthy of his very own page in the book.

I am approaching the age of 50. Since my early childhood, I have seen this book and other similar ones, all providing pictures of the presidents. They've always looked like old men to me--men of a different age than me in both chronology and era. Today, for the first time, I found myself looking at them as, well, men. I found myself thinking how distinguished some of them look and wondering what it would be like to sit across from them at a table while talking and drinking coffee. Um, what? A couple of them were quite good looking, and I even began to wonder what they would look like in modern clothes and hair styles and how I'm pretty sure I would have let Ulysses S. Grant take me on a date if neither of us were married.

Seriously, is this what it means to be my age? I look at this fascinating little slice of American history and end up daydreaming about a date with a dead president?

Healing ≠ Forgetting

The recall election was two weeks ago. Scott Walker is still governor, we may or may not have more balance of power in the state government, and higher education is still taking hits in terms of budget, quality, and elected officials thinking they know what learning is and how it is best facilitated and evaluated.

Nonetheless, I feel I have done a lot of healing since the recall. Granted, it's easy for me. Now that I am no longer a state employee, I'm not feeling as personally oppressed as I was for a good chunk of 2011. My paycheck does not give me monthly reminders of Act 10, and I am not surrounded by co-workers who are angry, depressed, and overwhelmed by feelings of powerlessness. So for me, healing is a different beast than it is for so many of my friends.

When we are cut, we bleed. Then we heal. Healing never means we go back to the way it was, though. Sometimes we have visible scars. Even when we don't, healing does not erase the experience of having had the injury and the pain. But healing means that we have moved on to a new version of ourselves.

I am relieved that recall season is over. With the continual emphasis on public unions at the expense of the many other pieces of Act 10 and the processes used to implement it, along with the complete lack of a Democratic platform that said anything other than "get rid of Walker" or "restore bargaining rights," defeat was inevitable. Now that the recall vote is over, I fee like I can get on with my life. I am again starting to pay attention to national politics, I'm able to think more intently about specific issues in the state, and I just feel like the burdens of anxiety and waiting have been lifted.

I'm incredibly frustrated by the fact that people are still name-calling and mocking each other. I'm tired of seeing extreme conservatives referred to as "right-wing nut jobs." They are simply passionate about the views with which we disagree. To many of them, those of us who are equally passionate about our ideas are "damn liberals." Seriously, people, try to find some common ground. We have to live and work with each other, so try to find some way to connect. As I stood in the voting line in Waukesha, knowing that most of the people around me would be voting differently than me, I still tried to chat with my neighbors about how it felt to be standing in a grade school in line again and which shows people wanted to see at Summerfest. I have even stopped flipping off every "I Stand with Scott Walker" bumper sticker I see. (Yes, I really did this. For months. But only at a level lower than my car window so no one but me would actually see it.) Healing a breach takes effort, but it is worth it.

The fact that I am doing well post-recall does NOT, however, mean that I have forgotten. I still remember how I felt when I checked my phone during a break at a workshop to see that Walker had put the national guard on alert because of the bomb he was about to drop on February 11, 2011. I will never forget how every Friday, I felt like one of my rights was being threatened.

I look at many of my friends and former colleagues and people I've gotten to know through social media. I think many of them are more healed than they realize as well. They have gotten more involved in their local communities and in taking up the banner to advocate for very specific issues. They have changed and are trying to make their communities and workplaces better places to be. They are new versions of themselves, healed from the immediate injuries done by Walker and the Fitzgerald brothers but able to move forward. Even though we move on with our individual and collective lives and are healed, we will never forget. We already make a difference, even if it's hard to see right now.