A Little Pomp and Some Circumstances Thursday, May 23 2013

Graduation was this past Saturday. I love graduation!

I am not required to go, but I go every year to spring graduation. I love seeing our grad students get hooded and watching the undergrads walk across the stage and get their diplomas. I have to take tissues every year because I invariably cry. There are two things that get me every time.

1. The faculty and academic staff line the walls on both sides outside of the auditorium as the students start the processional. We applaud the graduates as they file in. It is a sweet, special moment and allows for some quick shout-outs, high fives, and hugs to students we have personally taught.
2. Walking into the auditorium behind the students, dressed in all my regalia as the band plays Pomp and Circumstance. It is a moment celebrating the students, but also one of personal reflection thinking back on my educational memories and the whole journey.

I love the whole ceremony of graduation. It's sort of like having a wedding once in year in terms of ceremony, tradition, and ritual. I get to wear my fancy robe, tam, and hood with my LSU colors while all of my colleagues are wearing similar types of garb in a rainbow of colors representing their degrees, their disciplines, and their universities. The students file in, followed by faculty, and then administration as we march to the strains of the famliar graduation tune. We remain standing while the color guard marches in with the flags and posts the colors, then join in unity to sing the National Anthem. The speeches are typically thoughtful, inspiring, and just the appropriate length. We sit close to our grads and get to catch their eye throughout the ceremony and smile at them as they walk back to their seats after getting hooded and getting their diplomas. Afterwards, we get the joy of meetiing their parents, bragging on them, and taking photos. It's just a great day.

The students walking down the corridor as faculty applauds

And now the students have entered the auditorium.

Quick photo with business professor, Elle, a fellow LSU graduate. She bought the official LSU doctoral regalia. I bought mine off of Ebay. I am super jealous of her gorgeous LSU gown and might have to save my pennies to get one.

 

 

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The Joy of Teaching Wednesday, May 22 2013

Today I finished grading a stack of 30 final essay exams and submitted the last of my grades for the semester. 3 classes. 8 clients and a diagnostic team in clinical practicum. 2 independent studies. 112 students in total for Spring Semester 2013. It's been a wild ride. Quite frankly, this has been one of the most stressful semesters ever in the 5 years I have been teaching full-time. I was also on 2 search committees, a university-wide strategic planning committee, other university committees, managing two grants, playing event planner for our awards banquet, presenting at a conference, and coordinating 2 off-campus research projects with community agencies. It's kind of been a blur. I spent almost every weekend either stuck in the recliner grading or procrastinating grading. Work came home with me every night. Now it has mostly been put to bed, except for my end of the semester “nesting” and reorganization which will take up the rest of this week.

However, it has also been a great semester. In the midst of the hectic craziness and fatigue, there were some incredible teaching moments. Here's a snapshot:

• One of the students, in a course I teach to special ed majors, implemented some techniques I talked about in class in his work with an adult with autism. This student is a swimming coach for Special Olympics. This one adult with whom he works had pretty significant autism and uses echolalia (just repeats what he hears). This student, J, used that to his advantage. The swimmer did the backstroke and would always lift his head out of the water and stand up, which would disqualify him. J coached the swimmer to chant with his echolalia, “head in water, head in water” and instructed the other coaches to keep instructions simple and consistent. Don't say “put your head back,” “keep your head down,” etc. Stay consistent. The result? The swimmer finished his first competitive race ever without being disqualified AND qualified for the state Special Olympics. This student listened, tried something, it worked, and he reported it to me.
• Students in clinic who were asking rapid-fire questions in therapy and not giving clients time to talk, learned how to do the “therapy dance” of creating opportunities for communication, sitting back and waiting, and then responding in a way to keep the communication going. Kids learned to talk, to gesture, to pay attention, to follow the narrative of a book, to make requests, to protest, to play and students grew in confidence and skill.
• Students learned how to be creative, make something out of nothing, and how to write in active voice with person-first language and no jargon.
• And my two favorite comments of the semester (from two different classes): 1) I learned that it is okay to make mistakes and not know everything. 2) I learned that when I work with people with disabilities, even children, that I need ask them what they want to work on, how they feel about their disability, and what they think their strengths and weaknesses are. I need to listen to them.
• I had a student who speaks English as a second language with Arabic as her mother tongue. She was having trouble understanding some detailed and complex metalinguistic concepts in one class. I was able to get her to write some words in Arabic, “break the code” of her examples, and explain morphology to her using her Arabic examples of pluralization to compare to English and the light bulb turned on.

And lest you think that it was all a bed of roses…I also had two students drop a class. I gave the lowest grade I have ever given in a class. I had some cheating concerns. I had a student write me an email saying that she didn't learn anything from an assignment. I had students who didn't turn in assignments and receive a zero. And I had students who looked like it was a major inconvenience to show up to my classes…then proceed to fall asleep.

 

But, here's the beauty…

I have drawer full of thank you notes that I randomly get from students and clients' families each semester. I don't hold onto the “thanks for writing me a letter of recommendation” notes of obligation. These are real, heartfelt notes with specific comments. I cherish them all and sometimes will rifle through them on a particularly tough day. This stash of personal notes is worth more than gold to me.

My ESL student, who is also an artist, made me this beautiful typography. It says Dr. Pamela Terrell in Arabic and is just lovely!

I made this sign at the beginning of Fall Semester 2012 and hung it on my door with one “chance” torn off, for effect. I just thought it was kinda cute, sorta inspiring. As you can see, most of the chances have been torn off. I didn't know who was taking them, but I thought it was quaint that they were being torn off. Finally a student 'fessed up and told me that whenever she had a difficult decision to make or had to do something that scared her that she would come by and tear one off. This is the same student who went on my study abroad trip to Brazil with nothing but a regular sized backpack and a ukelele for 10 days. She's such a fun, free spirit and I have taught her over 5 classes in her junior year and throughout grad school. She just accepted a job (for which I was one of her references) as a birth-to-three SLP in Alaska. I took the sign you see above off of my door and presented to her for graduation–her two chances for her cross country adventure into the frozen wilds of Alaska.

All in all, it's a pretty cool gig. I work with awesome colleagues, teach (and learn from) incredible students, and get to see clients empowered in their communication. I count it all joy…well, mostly joy. Not the grading.

 

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Regret is NOT a Four-Letter Word Friday, May 10 2013

I was about to go to bed, but I got my feathers all ruffled so I feel compelled to blog first. I periodically see people tweet or post a status about not having any regrets as if that is a good thing. When people say that have no regrets, a few things go through my mind, primarily that the person is either a liar or not in touch with reality. To be human is to make mistakes which will (should?) result in regret.

Here's a bit of trite, over-sentimentalized “wisdom” from Pinterest on the subject:

 

Let's start with the above nugget of wisdom from the esteemed philosopher, Drew Barrymore. While I concur that our life experiences shape us, that does not necessarily equal no regrets. I can even see how very painful and negative experiences have shaped me, but I can still regret how I responded to those events or the people in my life.

So just because we really wanted something, we shouldn't regret it? Isn't that a rather hedonistic view? “Yeah, I don't really regret drinking and driving with a BAC of .72 and killing someone because I really wanted those drinks and I really wanted the independence of driving. No regrets!,” says no one.

Now this one isn't quite so obvious. It seems like a lovely thought. I regret the mountains I didn't climb, the places that I never traveled to, and the people I failed to love. However, it doesn't account for the regret of actions like gossip, adultery, cheating, bullying, etc. I know that I have actively done many things that are quite regrettable.

In a nutshell, I think that if you have no regrets that either:

1. You haven't taken any risks or challenged yourself in life,
2. You aren't being honest with yourself, or
3. You aren't truly reflective about your actions or lack thereof and the effects that they can have on others and oneself.

I know that I have plenty of regrets. Not in a “Woe is me. I am such a failure. I let everyone down including myself,” kind of way. More in a “Wow! I screwed that up and wish I had handled it differently” or “I should have done X when I had an opportunity” kind of way.

 

Some minor regrets include:

• Not taking a foreign language in college
• Not taking more diverse general ed classes in college like music and art appreciation, cultural anthropology, the philosophy of language, etc.
• Not studying abroad
• Being so focused on getting finished with school in our early married life that we didn't travel more
• Quitting piano lessons and ballet lessons after elementary school
• Not playing a sport
• Not liking Chinese food until I was in my late 30s
• Not trying brussel sprouts until the past year

Some bigger regrets include:

• Forgetting to pick Noah up from school one day when he was in 6th grade
• Not being there to support Robert when he tried out for the college mascot
• Jokingly and repeatedly teasing a guy in middle school about his given name and finding our in high school that it had really hurt his feelings
• Not forming deep friendships outside of school with people of different ethnicities and backgrounds
• Immediately asking my dad if he would still make as much money when he told me he was quitting a job he hated to take a job he loved
• Not taking my brother to youth group or even spending more time with him during my selfish and self-absorbed teenage years
• Thinking I knew more than I did at my first job and letting that get in the way of making good decisions
• Having a wedding like Robert and I would have really wanted rather than having felt obligated to follow etiquette and social norms
• Not having one more child

Now, regrets can become unhealthy if we wallow around and dwell in the woulda, coulda, shouldas. However, I think that acknowledging that we could have done things differently, better, or at all is a good thing. Reflective thinking leads to better and different decisions in the future. Regrets of the past make us more proactive in taking chances and trying new things. Regrets lead us to recognize wrong-doing and paves the road to redemption and reconciliation. Regret helps us say, “I'm sorry” and restore relationships. Personally I am a fan of embracing regrets, acknowledging them, moving forward, and being willing to explore new adventures that just may result in even more regrets. That's quite simply, living.

 

 

 

 

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Mom is Great! She Didn’t Make Chocolate Cake! Monday, Apr 29 2013

I have come to the conclusion that we are a family of anti-cake-ites. None of us really likes cake. Actually, we do like cake, just not in the traditional sense of cake, like birthday cake with frosting or a layered caramel cake. The first tip off was that Noah didn’t want a birthday cake for his 2nd birthday. He wanted a cookie cake instead. Since that time he has had a few birthday cakes, but he usually requests “Oreo dessert” for his birthday which is a layered dessert that involves copious amounts of oreos, cream cheese, whipped cream, and chocolate pudding. Robert’s birthday cake request is chocolate chip pound cake and Adam prefers ice cream cake or cheesecake.

Really it’s not that we hate cake or even don’t like cake. I don’t think any of us will refuse a piece of cake and usually we’ll like it. It’s just that if we were ranking desserts, traditional cake with frosting would fall at the bottom of the list. Cupcakes fall even lower on the list than cake. I don’t understand that trend and fascination at all. Mousses, trifles, brownies, cookies, bread pudding, souffles, pastries, pies, and tarts would all come out ahead of cake. In the world of cakes, we all love pound cake and cheesecake (which is not cake at all) and I am rather partial to non-frosted kinds of cakes like apple cake with lemon glaze and gingerbread cake with cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top.

When the boys were younger I felt some sort of social obligation for them to have a traditional birthday cake. However, I got tired of paying for chemical-tasting over-priced cake, so I took a cake decorating course and learned to make frosting, work an icing bag, and make roses from my concoctions of butter and sugar. I dutifully made birthday cakes with various themes on them and bought cake pans in the shape of footballs, soccer balls, hearts, and Christmas trees. I don’t really like decorating cakes and mixing up several different colors of icing, but I have done it for many years and many holidays. I’ve started wondering why I do it though, since I don’t like doing it and we don’t really like cake.

Last week I finished reading A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg. It’s a lovely book, very different from my typical reads, and I heartily recommend it. Each chapter of the book is an essay or memoir that revolves around creating or eating food with certain friends or family members. I was sucked into the stories each and every time and then the chapter ended with a recipe or two from the story that was presented. While on one hand, there are so many people I want to share this book with and loan it out to, on the other hand I have to hang onto it. This is because there are also so many of the recipes I want to try. I don’t know how Molly makes an arugula and bittersweet chocolate salad sound so appetizing, but she does, so now I want to make it. And I’m also intrigued by cooking with fennel now. Anyway, the book ends with her wedding to her husband and the cakes that they baked for the wedding.

The cakes were actually gateau au fondant chocolat or flourless chocolate cake. In the book it is called Winning Hearts and Minds Cake because the author swears that it will woo anyone to love or to be of like mind. After reading the story I wanted to bake this cake. I had baked a chocolate honey flourless cake before for a couple of Valentine’s Day celebrations so I knew that cake without flour is a whole different animal. It is more brownie/mousee/pudding than true cake. So, today I made it. It was a snap to make–so easy!

So, here’s what it looks like.

So plain, undecorated, and unassuming. There is nothing to recommend this rather boring looking cake with the cracked top (which is exactly how it is supposed to look). There is no icing, glaze, or even powdered sugar to adore it. Just simplicity.

And here it is all sliced and ready to tickle my tastebuds.

It was all gooey and almost like a thick pudding inside. The homemade whipped cream added just enough contrast to help with the density and richness of the cake. It was the perfect cake for a mom who doesn’t like to decorate cakes and a family of non-cake eaters, plus it was so quick and simple to make.

And now I have to try her recipe for Butterscotch Pots de Crème. Butterscotch is one of my favorite flavors and creme brulee is my all-time favorite dessert. This one sounds like heaven in a ramekin.

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Nineteen Tuesday, Apr 23 2013

I look across the room at my oldest son
Lounging casually on the tired old sofa
Reading through Reddit and smiling to himself
while he listens to music through his headphones.

The Black Keys. City and Colour. She and Him. The Kooks. Iron and Wine.

He wears a plaid shirt with rolled cuffs and his knit cap rests on the back of his head. His gestures and mannerisms are as familiar to me as my own. Even when I see his 6’2″ body flung across his bed in sleep, he wears the same expression on his face and maintains the same posture as the toddler version of himself in footie pajamas.

His clothes are half washed and strewn about the laundry room.
He emailed me a recipe for vegetarian curry that he wants to try.
We will make it together this weekend.
He gets chatty when his hands are busy chopping and stirring.
It’s when I know him best.
That, and long lonely car rides together to and from college.

We listen to podcasts. This American Life and The Dinner Party Download.
We talk about social justice.
We discuss the real meaning and sense of vocation.
We are quiet.
And we listen to music…always music.

He’s 19. His whole life ahead.
Full of dreams, ambitions, and ways to change the world.
So much travel to do, food to taste, people to meet, experiences to be had.
A mostly man (but still a bit of little boy, my baby).

We joke about “no tattoos ’til after college.”
I tell him that his prefrontal cortex is not completely developed.
He may still make decisions that he might really regret
Like a cartoon character or a (one day meaningless) quote on a bicep.

Dzhokhar Tsarnaev is 19. His whole life ahead.
Full of dreams, ambitions, and ways to change the world.
So much travel to do, food to taste, people to meet, experiences to be had.
A mostly man (but still a bit of little boy).

I can’t help but think,
Does his mother remember ruffling those curls?
As she nestled him to her breast, could she ever imagine?
Could this boy who toddled, then walked, then ran,
Bringing fistfuls of flowery weeds to his mother…
Could this boy build a bomb?
Could this boy who built wobbly castles, moved a pawn around a board game, tattled on his siblings…
Could this boy watch people collapse, bleed, and die while he sauntered away?
Could this boy for whom she cared during fever-filled days
and comforted during nights of bad dreams…
Could this boy carjack, shoot, terrorize, and flee?

Did his mother every tell him that his prefrontal cortex was not completely developed?
He may still make decisions that he might really regret
Like a bomb in a pressure cooker in a backpack.

My maternal heart-brain linked inexplicably to hers.
As I stare across the room at my man-child of 19 years.

This poem was prompted by my thoughts and mindset last Saturday night as I looked at my son who is home from college on spring break. The catalyst for finally putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard rather) was this poem and this blog post. And…April is National Poetry Month.

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Nineteen Tuesday, Apr 23 2013

April is National Poetry Month. A friend posted this poem about the Boston bombing on Facebook earlier today and it really resonated with me. The subsequent blog post about the poem is worth reading as well. I felt compelled to write one of my own sparked by my own thoughts from Sunday night.

 

I look across the room at my oldest son

Lounging casually on the tired old sofa

Reading through Reddit and smiling to himself

while he listens to music through his headphones.

 

The Black Keys. City and Colour. She and Him. The Kooks. Iron and Wine.

 

He wears a plaid shirt with rolled cuffs and his knit cap rests on the back of his head. His gestures and mannerisms are as familiar to me as my own. Even when I see his 6'2″ body flung across his bed in sleep, he wears the same expression on his face and maintains the same posture as the toddler version of himself in footie pajamas.

 

His clothes are half washed and strewn about the laundry room.

He emailed me a recipe for vegetarian curry that he wants to try.

We will make it together this weekend.

He gets chatty when his hands are busy chopping and stirring.

It's when I know him best.

That, and long lonely car rides together to and from college.

 

We listen to podcasts. This American Life and The Dinner Party Download.

We talk about social justice.

We discuss the real meaning and sense of vocation.

We are quiet.

And we listen to music…always music.

 

He's 19. His whole life ahead.

Full of dreams, ambitions, and ways to change the world.

So much travel to do, food to taste, people to meet, experiences to be had.

A mostly man (but still a bit of little boy, my baby).

 

We joke about “no tattoos 'til after college.”

I tell him that his prefrontal cortex is not completely developed.

He may still make decisions that he might really regret

Like a cartoon character or a (one day meaningless) quote on a bicep.

 

Dzhokhar Tsarnaev is 19. His whole life ahead.

Full of dreams, ambitions, and ways to change the world.

So much travel to do, food to taste, people to meet, experiences to be had.

A mostly man (but still a bit of little boy).

 

I can't help but think,

Does his mother remember ruffling those curls?

As she nestled him to her breast, could she ever imagine?

Could this boy who toddled, then walk, then ran,

Bringing fistfuls of flowery weeds to his mother…

Could this boy build a bomb?

Could this boy who built wobbly castles, moved a pawn around a board game, tattled on his siblings…

Could this boy watch people collapse, bleed, and die while he sauntered away?

Could this boy for whom she cared during fever-filled days

and comforted during nights of bad dreams…

Could this boy carjack, shoot, terrorize, and flee?

 

Did his mother every tell him that his prefrontal cortex was not completely developed?

He may still make decisions that he might really regret

Like a bomb in a pressure cooker in a backpack.

 

My maternal heart-brain linked inexplicably to hers.

As I stare across the room at my man-child of 19 years.

 

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My Luggage Fetish Friday, Apr 12 2013

A few years ago, Robert told me how he was somewhat obsessed with finding and owning the perfect windbreaker. I had no idea that he was on a quest for a windbreaker that met all of his windbreaker criteria. He owns at least 5 windbreakers and none of them quite fit the bill. Now, Robert is also a year-round runner and we live in the great frozen north. The trick about running in the dead of winter is that it is bitterly cold and often snowing, but if you layer too much you sweat while running and then freeze while cooling down. A well-designed windbreaker becomes really important. Here are Robert's criteria for the perfect windbreaker:

• “non-plasticy” (supple), but water-repellent
• reflective
• zippered pockets, includeing a butt pocket and internal pockets
• have a “tail” (slightly longer in the back) or be almost mid-thigh length
• include a zip-away hood
• come in green or another “respectable” color like blue or black
• good ventilation panels/slits

He stated that he could find a windbreaker that meets all of these specs, but he'd have to pay a lot of money for this jacket. And since we are both cheapskates…Alas, the perfect windbreaker has not yet been obtained.

 

Back in January when Robert and I went for an overnight in Chicago and to see Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me, we had some time to kill so we wandered around some stores. We also had to buy me a hat, since I forgot mine and my ears were freezing. We were in a Sears and then Macy's (the former, esteemed Marshall Field's) and ended up in the luggage section. I started geeking out. Robert had no idea that I was a fan of luggage.

I don't actually own a lot of luggage–just a standard set of 4 sizes of soft-sided luggage in burgandy, which is one of my least favorite colors and a ubiquitous player on the airport conveyor belt. I have this awesome small rolling bag that is full of pockets for toiletries, has a place for a laptop/iPad, and then plenty of room for clothes while being smaller than the average carry-on. I am a big fan of this no-name bag that I bought at a thrift store for $12. Being as I am a master packer, I can pack for 4-5 days in this tiny little bag. It is a boring forest green though, which is another boring, overdone luggage color.

Here's the front pocket for iPad, pens, books, ziploc bag of 3 oz toiletries, snacks, etc.

Interior section for clothes–if I plan accordingly and roll clothes instead of folding, I can pack 5 days worth in this part.

And finally, the part for non-liquid toiletries and other clothes, usually jammies, lingerie, and/or maybe a pair of flat shoes.

 

Now what I am coveting is a small, hard-sided carry-on. I am kind of partial to this one:

 

First of all, it has fabulous polka dots! It also has multi-directional wheels, which none of my current suitcases have. Also, I travel a fair amount and am brutal on luggage–or at least the airlines are–so that's why I'm wanting a hard-sided case. I'd also be game for something like this:

 

I want something that is feminine and is a somewhat unusual color so that it stands out on the baggage carousel, although since I am such a savvy packer I rarely have to check luggage . It's always nice to have the option though.

So there's my no-longer-secret quirky obsession. For me, diamonds aren't a girl's best friend. Just give me a nice multi-compartment, cute, wheeled suitcase and I'm just fine.

 

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Awesome Colleagues Monday, Apr 1 2013

I work with a really great group of people. One of my colleagues, upon finding out about my hatred intense dislike of all things Bieber, came into my office and did this:

Yeah, she put a Justin Bieber on my office wall. The really funny thing is that it took me about 3 days to even notice a large Biebs staring at me. Everyone had started placing wagers on how long it would take me to notice. I thought it was funny, so I left the Biebs on my wall and would occasionally put Bieber quotes on the poster as well. It was interesting when students came in to talk about class or discuss a personal crisis and then they would notice Justin on my wall and look at me quizzically. I became adept at explaining that it was a joke and I really wasn't (and am not) a Belieber.

Well, this same colleague recently heard about Bieber's entitled and whiny behavior during his British tour, so I walked into my office this afternoon and was greeted by this:

The Biebs is now in the recycle bin and I now have this lovely quilted wallhanging on the wall over my office loveseat.

The gem about this is that we are both quilters. Quilters love gifts of quilts. I already have one of my favorite quotes on a wallhanging I made for myself hanging on another office wall. I love the coziness of two quilts hanging in my office now…and I'd better get busy making one for her in return.

I so enjoy working with such awesome people!I

 

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A Broken Vase and an Ugly Cake Monday, Apr 1 2013

 

This was the centerpiece, if you want to call it that, of my Easter table today. I didn't make any cutesy place cards a la Pinterest or have an elaborate centerpiece and candles. Partly because I have pretty simple tastes, partly because I'm not a big fan of spending a lot of time and energy on stuff like that for one meal, and partly because I would be the only female at the table. However, I did enjoy setting the table with my spring table runner, my wedding china and crystal, and my grandmother's silver. I bought some tulips because I saw them at the grocery store and they are my favorite flower. And I put them in this vase because I adore the spring colors and happiness of this vase.

This vase has a story though. I bought it 19 years ago (Gasp! Time does fly…) at an art fair in downtown Fort Worth, Texas. I remember it well because it was April of 1994 and Adam was a month old. My dear friend from high school, Amy, had flown out to visit for several days. As it turned out, she was quite a godsend because I was still on maternity leave and figuring out how to be a mommy. Robert was in his second to last semester in seminary and we lived in the “little shack on the prairie,” as we referred to our parsonage in the middle-of-nowhere Texas. Robert had just had all four of his wisdom teeth out the day before Amy came. While I was still wrestling with the night wakings, engorged and leaky breasts, and the inexpressible fatigue of young parenthood, Amy acted as a second wife of sorts and medicated Robert (she is a pharmacist after all) and kept him set in cold ice packs. As he was on the mend, she and I ventured into Fort Worth to attend this huge arts festival. As we wandered among the various artists, I was drawn to the colors of the vase. I walked away, we looked at more booths, but I kept being pulled back. I think I paid $40 for this handmade vase which was a fortune to us at the time. However, it has brought me such joy over the years and many sweet memories.

Here's the thing though. Take another look.

My beautiful vase was broken. It survived the move from Fort Worth to Baton Rouge just fine. However, in Baton Rouge we acquired a second cat. A cat who loves to eat flowers. She doesn't just chew on woody stems or gnaw on leaves. She goes for the actual flower–stamen, pistil, petals, and all!I I first discovered it when I had clipped some azaleas from our yard and put them in a small bud vase on the kitchen table. I saw her by the flowers and figured she was chewing the stems. However, when confronted, she popped up with her black face covered in yellow pollen and the petals had bite marks and were torn. I guess I assumed it was just a weird fluke. Unfortunately not. I had some flowers in this vase and in her flower-eating frenzy she knocked over the vase and it broke into several pieces. Robert was able to glue it back together and it is functional and still holds water. The cracks and beads of glue remain. (If you're wondering why I have flowers in it now with the same cat still in the house…flowers are supervised at all times or put on top of the armoire which she can't jump to. This is why all flowers ultimately end up in my office at work).

And then we come to the ugly Easter cake. I took a cake decorating class when we lived in Baton Rouge. I don't particularly like to decorate cakes, but paying a bakery for cakes for birthdays was like highway robbery to me, so I figured I could learn to do it myself. I am no pro, but I have made quite a few very decent cakes. I will certainly keep my day job because I don't excel at cake decorating by anyone's standards, but I do alright and the guys have been pleased with their custom cakes over the years. I have a Wilton football pan that I use to make cake for the Super Bowl party and I also use it and make an Easter egg cake each year. I baked the cake last night and (stupid me!) left it in the pan all night to cool. Bad move since it stuck to the pan. When I flipped it out of the pan this morning, about 1/3 of the cake remained in the pan. I was able to carefully loosen it with a dull knife and it came out in one piece. I fitted it onto the rest of the cake and figured it would look okay when decorated. I was in a rush this morning and my icing got too warm and runny. Plus, since I made 4 colors of icing, I started to run low on various colors and I had no plan. I just started putting this color here and that color there. The results were less than impressive.

Because my icing was a bit runny, I put the cake in the frig to firm up the icing a bit. The problem was, when I cut the cake, the fissure down the middle of my cake was blatantly obvious and the cake slices fell apart. Also, since the icing was now cold, it didn't adhere to the cake when cut and slid totally off each slice. It was a pathetic mess, although it still tasted just fine. Nothing beats homemade buttercream frosting.

Looking at my Easter table with my broken and repaired vase and my ugly, falling apart, delicious cake made me smile. What a perfect picture of Easter!

Jesus came to upset the status quo. He was a King born in poverty to an unwed woman. He learned a trade as a carpenter. When He was hailed as Messiah on Palm Sunday, He rode the back of a donkey instead of a fine stallion. His body was broken, so that screwed-up selfish me could know grace. He came to make all things new.

II Corinthians 5:14-15 Our firm decision is to work from this focused center: One man died for everyone. That puts everyone in the same boat. He included everyone in his death so that everyone could also be included in his life, a resurrection life, a far better life than people ever lived on their own.

16-20 Because of this decision we don’t evaluate people by what they have or how they look. We looked at the Messiah that way once and got it all wrong, as you know. We certainly don’t look at him that way anymore. Now we look inside, and what we see is that anyone united with the Messiah gets a fresh start, is created new. The old life is gone; a new life burgeons! Look at it! All this comes from the God who settled the relationship between us and him, and then called us to settle our relationships with each other. God put the world square with himself through the Messiah, giving the world a fresh start by offering forgiveness of sins. God has given us the task of telling everyone what he is doing. We’re Christ’s representatives. God uses us to persuade men and women to drop their differences and enter into God’s work of making things right between them. We’re speaking for Christ himself now: Become friends with God; he’s already a friend with you. (From The Message, emphasis mine)

I am thankful for the stories of resurrection and new life that my broken vase and ugly cake spoke to me today. And the flowers were still beautiful and the cake was yummy.

Happy Easter!

 

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Microaggression Friday, Mar 29 2013

According to Sue et al. (2007) in American Psychologist, microaggression is defined as “brief and commonplace daily verbal, behavioral, or environmental indignities, whether intentional or unintentional, that communicate hostile, derogatory, or negative racial slights and insults toward people of color.” Other definitions go on to elaborate that microaggressions aren’t just racial, but cultural, religious, gender-based, etc. For example telling someone, “You throw like a girl” could be considered a microaggression

I was introduced to the word microaggression for the first time several weeks ago. I am on a search and screen committee and my role is the affirmative action representative. I had to meet with administration about how to make sure that our search is diverse and that we consider issues of equality and avoiding microaggression. The AA/EE officer gave me a handout with examples of microaggression and it was very helpful.

First of all, I do think we live in an overly sensitive society. Sometimes we overreact to words and make mountains out of molehills. For example, last week in class I was teaching about cognitive disabilities. I told the students that I don’t like that word and I prefer the term “mental retardation.” When I said the words mental retardation there was an audible gasp. One student blurted, “We were taught to never use that word!” I replied back, “Yes, I know. However, first of all, it is not a ‘bad word.’ Secondly, I am about to tell you why I prefer it.” I went on to remind the students that while calling someone “a retard” is very, very offensive (and I will go off on you if I hear it, rest assured) the word “retarded” actually means “slowed.” I further gave the musical example of ritard, although spelled differently it is pronounced the same, which means to slow down when playing a piece of music. To say someone is “mentally retarded” means that they mental development is slower than the norm. That’s pretty accurate. However, when I hear the words cognitive disability that means that someone has difficulty with cognitive abilities. To me, that could be someone who has had a stroke, head injury, cerebral palsy, or Down syndrome. I think that mentally retarded is a more accurate term, even though it now has a negative connotation.

Anyway, when I first heard of microaggression I thought, “Here we go with the quick reaction to anything that could be misinterpreted even though it wasn’t meant that way.” Once I read through the examples and started reflecting on them, I started to think about this issue a bit more seriously. A few years ago I was working with a Russian woman who wanted to get rid of her accent. Her speech was very understandable, but she had a slight Russian accent. I told her that I thought her accent was beautiful and asked if she was sure she wanted to work to get rid of it. She said she was tired of everyone asking her about her accent when she first met them. A HA! I had a lightbulb moment. I “got” it.

Moving to Wisconsin as a native Southerner with a “y’all fixin’ to?” accent of my own I understood exactly what she meant. Most of my Southern friends think I have totally lost my accent. I haven’t entirely, although about 80-90% of it is gone. I purposefully worked to get rid of it because I got so tired of everyone I met asking me where I was from or commenting on how “cute” my accent was. To me, (right, wrong, or otherwise) it made me constantly feel like an outsider. I am not embarrassed of where I am from or the fact that I was born and raised in Alabama. I just got tired. Now I can’t remember the last time I said y’all, I can pronounce pen and pin differently, and I don’t say “fixin’ to” anymore. Every now and then I even hear a Wisconsin “o” slipping into my speech. However, I can say with firm conviction that I will never say melk for milk, beg for bag, or ruff for roof. I also can’t unSouthernize vowels that precede an “L.” For example, heal sounds like hill, peel sounds like pill, pale sounds like pell, etc.

The constant comments about my accent were benign conversation starters. No one meant any offense by asking where I was from or commenting on my accent. I know that they were innocent remarks and I wasn’t offended (although it was a bit patronizing when people used the adjective, cute). However, it was tiring and got tedious at times. And I also am well aware of the Southern stereotypes and felt like I had to try extra hard to prove myself. So I was glad that I was introduced to the concept of microaggression and it has made me try to think and be a little bit cautious before I offer a comment that could be misconstrued. I don’t think it is an issue that we need to get all up in arms about, but something to think about and consider.

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