Usually, I am enthusiastic about that philosophy.
Right now, I'm mostly wishing I was one of those teachers that just issued a standardized test twice a term and called it a day.
I have asked my students to create a writing portfolio, and they will have a scaffolded assignment that begins with looking at their own story through a sociological lens, and progresses through the academic writing process (annotated bibliography, culture studies, family interviews) culminating in a teaching activity where they teach the class about a particular culture group as they have experienced it. Sounds really awesome - on paper - right up until a student says, "But, I don't have any understanding of what a sociological autobiography looks like. Can you show me an example?" And you realize, there aren't any examples lying about on the internet... and you have to write one for your students.
This gets particularly uncomfortable when you realize you made a commitment to your students to be honest with them. So. Yeah.... fuck.
I did limit the first assignment to 1000 to 1500 words. I wrote, and edited, and wrote, and cried a little, and edited. And I think I ended up with something that is honest, sociological, and appropriate for sharing with students... ok... I probably should have edited the profanity out of it, but I justify leaving it in because it is honestly me.
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The first thing I
remember is my mother. She was sitting on the floor painting cartoon animals on
the wall. She was pregnant. She had a cigarette in her mouth, in a way I now recognize
as the exact same way her mother held a cigarette in her mouth. She had a paintbrush
in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other, and she was laughing. I don’t
know what she was laughing about, I just remember feeling warm, and safe, and
loved.
My mother grew up in
what sociologists call absolute poverty. She knew dirt floors, homemade
clothes, and work – hard work. She was one of six children. Her father was
blinded in a coal mine accident and her mother was responsible for supporting their
family. This is important because her experiences shaped how she raised me. My
mother taught herself how to read when she was teaching me. My mother insisted
I attend college. My mother made sure I could also clean house, raise babies,
and live frugally. I learned some of her lessons better than others.
My parents were from
the part of Appalachia where the only occupations available to them were
farming, the coal mines, or joining the military. My dad joined the military. He
volunteered to serve in the Vietnam war. He eventually made a career out of the
military, and to a little kid – all this means is that daddy isn’t home - a lot.
My dad celebrated my birthday with me twice. Once was during a move across
country. They forgot to get me a birthday present, so they stopped at a Kmart
and bought me a blue school satchel with silver clasps and some pencils. As a
grown up, I understand the craziness that happens with a move from Virginia to
California with a limited budget and four kids in tow. As a little kid – I felt
forgotten. This is important because I often felt forgotten or not wanted.
When I was little, my
older cousins molested me. I remember them saying what they were doing was OK, “because
this is what grownups do when they love each other.” I believed them. I
believed that I had to do what they wanted, if I wanted them to love me. This
is important because it shaped all my relationships with men. I would often put
up with abuse or neglect or shame, because I was scared of not being loved if I
objected. I was scared of being abandoned if I said, “No. Stop. What you are
doing is not OK.”
About a year after the
molestations started, they stopped. I had learned to stuff my feelings down
with food. I had started getting fat. My cousins didn’t want sex with fat
girls, so they left me alone. Unfortunately, I had already learned that fat
girls are invisible in our society. No one sees them, and no one notices them,
and they are generally left alone – except for the bouts of teasing. For me,
the bouts of teasing, and the crushing loneliness were better than being
noticed by men. I had learned to hide in my burqa of fat. This is important
because my self-compassion was crushed, and I thought I deserved to be treated
with abuse. This impacted my health care decisions, my mate selections, and
even how I parented my child.
My son is the most
important thing to ever happen in my life. He lifted the veil on my burqa. My
son was born to a 14-year old girl addicted to street drugs. I was told he
would never walk or talk, and that I should put him in an institution – that he
was only going to cause me pain. I remember coming home from the doctor’s
office and really REALLY wishing I had told the patronizing asshole of a doctor
to fuck off. I have spent the time since then proving the fucker wrong. This is
important because for the first time in my life, I had someone other than
myself to fight for. I learned compassion and empathy, because my son needed it
more than other kids. I learned that rocking the social boat was necessary,
because my son needed unconventional accommodations. I learned to educate
myself, because I had to educate others. I learned to get angry and say, “No.
What you are doing is not OK, and you will NOT treat my son like that.”
Because of the lessons
I learned from my son, I was able to start applying those lessons to my own
life. I am learning to treat myself with compassion. This is important because
our society does not treat fat women with compassion. We are treated as if we
are lazy or stupid, as if fat sucks our brains out of our heads and hides it
with the jelly doughnuts around our stomachs. I know I am fat. I wake up every
day and see that I am fat. I know I am fat every time I get a dirty look from a
woman eating lettuce with carrot juice while I eat something that tastes like
real food. I know I am fat every time I walk around the block, and hear people
laugh. Thanks, I’ve figured out I’m fat. Fuck off now and let me get on with
living.
I have learned that
consent – real consent – might piss people off, and they might leave, and that
really is OK – because I really am better off without them. This is important
because in our society we don’t have honest conversations about what consent is
and what consent is not. I have learned that if I think my choices are (a) have sex
or (b) my partner will have sex with someone else, then my choice needs to be
(b) – besides, my mother always said I should share my outgrown toys with the
less fortunate.
I have learned that
anger sometimes is a responsible, and adult choice. I have also learned what I
do with my anger is more important than feeling anger. This is important
because in our society, women have been taught, historically, to be silent, and
that an angry woman is probably just hysterical. I can feel angry, and still
not pull a scene reminiscent of Jerry Springer. I can feel angry, and still
communicate effectively and get my needs met. This is one of those lessons I’m
not learning as well as some of the others. There are still people who I let
push my buttons, and I turn into a raging lunatic. I’m also having compassion
for where I am in my journey, and forgiving myself – after I apologize, of
course.
I have learned that other people have their
own shit to deal with, and 98% of the time, their shit has nothing to do with
me. It is their own anger/shame/hurt coming out sideways to dump on the easiest
target (read that: person most likely to take the shit and not complain too
much) available. This is important because it takes a lot of courage for me to
say, “Do you mean to sound like an asshat?” This is important because conflict,
particularly conflict coming from women is interpreted as bitchiness in our
society. The message I internalized was that either I could let people treat me
as a doormat or I would be ostracized for being a bitch. Loneliness always
scared me more than pain, so I let people walk all over me. I wasn’t honest
with them, or with myself about my needs and wants and desires in life.
Looking back, I am a
long way away from that little girl who watched her mom paint cartoons on the
wall. I do remember what it feels like to feel safe and loved and whole. That
is more than what some people have. Those feelings of security and love were
pretty rare for me for a very long time, and I tried to fill the hole where
they were supposed to be with a lot of different things – mostly sex and
carbohydrates. I didn’t know I could fill that hole myself, that I didn’t need
other people (or cupcakes) to fill it for me. Right now, I can look at the
statuses I have in my life: mother, partner, teacher, student, daughter, friend
– and feel mostly OK about them. The changes I need to make in them will come
in their own time and in their own way, and I am OK with the journey.
