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HURRAH! I'm done!! Took that infernal comphrensive / qualifying exam today. And I'm done! Can't say I knew as much as I should've, but I think I managed to squeeze by. Given what the faculty have been telling us (you'll all pass), I doubt I could've been such an embarrassment to the program with my generalizations that they would fail me. I think I at least demonstrated that I read many of the books on the list. Now to settle in to the semester, finally.

[Asian Artists Make Porn Sites Work for Them]

Glad that people like [Greg Pak] and [Mimi Nguyen] are out there doing their things, making films, writing critiques. I wonder, though, how much their works change orientalist assumptions. Let me say first off that my doubts don't hinder my appreciation of the insightful work and criticism they do. In fact, I think most "persuasive" rhetoric is ultimately useless against entrenched opposition, but it can be instrumental in catalyzing the consciousness of those who haven't thought much about the issues addressed. And this article has given my thinking a new twist, making the explicitly confrontational work of Pak and [Big Bad Chinese Mama] in the realm of exotic porn, for example, a tactic for resistance and visibility. In other words, while the "angry perverts" might not change their libidinal urges, at least they will understand that Asian/American women and men are not quite always the passive, exotic playthings they fantasize about.

But my doubts about "changing" the way people see others, especially through that complicated "sense" we know as sexual attraction and its imbrications of power, submission, etc., is all part of my growing uncertainty about my effectiveness in the role of a teacher. True, I've only taught two class sessions to date, but throughout the many hours I spent designing lesson plans as well, I've constantly asked myself how I might impart information, skills, ideas. Communicating information, plain facts, seems a simple enough endeavor. State it in bold point. But skills, how do I teach the skills involved in effective writing? The theoretical basis of the [Writing Program] is rooted in an understanding of doing as the means to learning these skills. But obviously, simply letting students write constantly is no guarantee of their learning how to construct their arguments, to put together words in sentences that move, point, explain, convince. And I just feel at a loss how to do all of this.

I guess I'm just overwhelmed with the responsibility that's been invested in me with this course. I should realize that I'm not alone, that I have many resources upon which I can draw for ideas, help, and advice. I should also realize that even if my students don't "get" everything I want them to learn, at least they'll have written much, been asked to think explicitly about the writing process, and been shown various ways to improve their writing through practice.

I need to stop making excuses and start doing.

Blog anniversary musings

Ok, so I'm about a month and a half or so shy of the actual first anniversary of my blog, but [Blogger is 2!] and I'm eating this delicious rum cake (made with a whole bottle of rum!) a friend of ours gave us last night, so I'm in a birthday celebration kinda mood. Mmm... rum...

It just struck me, because I'm slow, that this on-line writing thing is exactly what I needed because it maintains the perfect balance between me and my "reader." I've always been a huge letter-writer, but my pen pals are never quite as into the diary-like stuff I want to write about (or at least, that's what I think). I've always had a need to write my thoughts down, too, but personal diaries only brought out the worst in me, the kind of stuff I really didn't want to think about and that needed to be addressed in other forums anyways. What I need is an audience. Or at least the shadow of an audience, the possibility of one. Keeping a private journal means the only audience for your writing is yourself. And that's just not enough people for me! I don't have delusions of grandeur or even aspirations of fame in keeping this blog. But knowing that people can (and do) stop by, both by accident and by design, really gives me the incentive to work through these fabulous things called words, sentences, and ideas. Language and communication, after all, exists between people, not just with the writer.

I'm deathly ashamed of my legs and won't wear shorts in public. Or at least, I haven't in the past (since adolescence). I'm not going to describe why I hate my legs because it's too much for me to think about. I used to write cryptic poems about the relentless onslaught of anger, hate, shame, and other negative feelings I associated with my legs.

It's crazy, but I was able to survive by avoiding being outside during hot summer days. I've never been much of an active, sport-playing person, so I was doing nothing new avoiding playing sports with people in shorts. Since I've been with Joe, I've begun to make a little improvement towards accepting my legs as something not to be ashamed of. A little. (The first night I spent over at his place, I was reluctant to change out of my jeans to go to bed. I almost left. But then Joe offered me a pair of his sweatpants to wear, and I gladly retreated to the bathroom to change.) I've been able to expose my legs to the light of day! They have become this really scary pale-translucent color.

I've gone out jogging a few times in shorts. Of course, I stick to the small neighborhood roads rather than run on the busy streets. Of late this summer, I've even gone to the laundromat a couple of times (including today) in shorts. And though I feel that people stare at me / my legs as atrocities of existence, I haven't broken down in panic or anything. It helps that these situations involve strangers, so I'm not talking to anyone or even seen by anyone who knows me. And of course, no one points and laughs or mocks me or even makes any comment about me.

I'm taking the next step. I'm going to walk to [Duke] in shorts in a little bit. I'll even go into the library, maybe. But then I'll change into pants before I get on the [bus] to go to [UNC] for my seminar this afternoon because there might be people who recognize me. Aren't I pitiful? (And let's not even go into other aspects of public nudity, like *gasp* going around shirtless. I obviously never go to the beach.)

Dying is easy it's living that scares me to death . . .

Just checking my registration/cashier's bill on-line. Such a long list of fees and charges! All the charges and credits, often repeated, subtracted, counterbalancing each other, yet leaving small discrepancies. It's a wonder they can even keep track of how much they've charged me, for what, and how much I've paid. It looks like I'm still carrying the full balance of my tuition for this semester, oddly. The tuition remission I'm supposed to get and small tuition grants don't seem to have come in yet. At least they haven't put a freeze on my registration.

I have nothing interesting to write.

I decided not to keep a separate teaching journal. While it would be more portable or accessible or something, I know this teaching thing is going to bleed into the whole of my life at least for the next few weeks. So, I might as well just put my thoughts about teaching into my general-use journal. I am still keeping notes on what works in class, what doesn't -- notations for my slowly developing lesson plans.

Such a strange feeling to be bombarded with work again now that the semester has started. So much to read, so many things to think about. I probably won't be able to follow all the [blogs] I've been reading lately. I'll miss you!

Thanks to all my dear friends for the happy wishes about teaching, by the way!

I had a nice talk with my sister this evening about dealing with anxieties. She mentioned a book by Edmund Bourn called The Anxiety and Phobia Workbook that might be helpful for me to skim. It offers some concrete exercises and such to accustom oneself to anxiety-inducing situations. Our talk revolved much around our (all us four siblings, really) various levels of difficulty dealing with criticism. We think it's because our parents were always very critical of us and everything we did. Even though we understand why they were (they wanted us always to work harder), it doesn't take away that feeling that we can't do anything right.

(Ooo! One of my students just sent me an e-mail to tell me she has created her [blogger] writing journal.)

I was on the verge of a panic attack this morning. But I managed to get through the class. I thought that I had planned too much to cover in the fifty-minute class period, but it ended up taking up just the right amount of time because some things I thought would take a long time ended up taking just a few minutes. My students were not so talkative. They stared at me expectantly the whole time. It was very disconcerting. I feel much better now, but I don't know if Friday morning will be any better than this morning. So much planning to do for this class. So much work . . .

Last day of summer break, as much of a break as it wasn't. On campus trying to recover. Proctored a first-year composition placement exam this morning, followed by new graduate student orientation, library instruction tutorial, and doing the inter-institutional registration thing so I can take a [very promising class] at [Duke]. At least the weather has calmed down to mellow sogginess so I can make my way back and forth between buildings without collapsing.

I'm excited that classes are starting again, but increasinly dismayed that I will have to get up in front of the class to teach in two days. I agreed to proctor the placement exam this morning partially because I thought it would be a relatively painless way to be at the head of the class. But of course, I didn't end up doing any talking -- my fellow proctor read the instructions to the exam takers, doing all the verbal part of the work. I ended up just passing out exams and blank paper; then I collected them. A complete failure, as far as these self-imposed experiments at speaking in social situations goes. And I know it's really not a big deal, but I can't get past this wall of fear, of feeling my thoughts fly out of my mind, leaving me with a blank look on my face as thirty pairs of expectant (and in my mind, hyper-critical) eyes look on.

I know that relying on drugs to restore / alter "chemical balances" in the mind are not necessarily the best way to go about dealing with neuroses and socio-pathologies. But I wish sometimes that I were on [Paxil], that seemingly-wonder-drug to cure people of their anxieties about social situations. There are always people who think that social anxiety disorder and the like are "fake" anxieties, things that one can just make go away by DOING what is feared (being in social situations, talking to people, etc.). But that's not enough. In the past year, I have continually tried putting myself into these situations that I have always avoided in the past. And while it is true that I have therefore been out more than ever, I still always fear the situations, feel incredibly self-conscious while I'm there, and always have to retreat to a solitary place (like now -- I'm hiding in my office, alone) to ease my nerves.