AAA

Three As are a cause for suspicion these days. The bond rating agencies ignored all common sense, succumbed to pressure, and gave AAA ratings to all manner of junk securities. (As Husband explained to me, when there's a lot of shit in a lot of buckets, the smell of each bucket doesn't offset the others, which how how the rating agencies justified giving excellent ratings to buckets of shit.)

I thought about the AAA rating when I checked my grades online. It turns out that I got an A in my workshop, an A in my lit seminar, and an A in my colloquium. Under normal circumstances, I'd be puffing my chest and celebrating with a metaphorical cigar. However, I know that my grades are as inflated as Moody's ratings on collateralized debt obligations full of subprime mortgages. And just like with all the securities ratings, I know that all of my classmates' "products" were given triple As, too. It's sort of hollow.

Once, way back in the day when I thought that a career in public policy would fulfill me and thus pursued a graduate public administration degree, I aced a semester. I received an A in my advanced seminar on child & family policy (actually a PhD class in the School of Social Work), an A in my seminar on social policy analysis (also a social work PhD course), an A in a course on the legal environment of policymaking, and an A in my public management practicum. Damn, I feel my chest puffing up as I write this. The next semester I almost outdid myself, earning two As (in an insane course on public housing policy and in a policy analysis practicum), and A+ (seriously, they gave me an A+!) in a research practicum on poverty and public policy. Then I got a B+ in a sociology course in which the professor refused to talk to me after I missed a class due to illness, so that ruined it, but whatever. I've never been prouder of my work.

Grades don't buy happiness, that's for sure. I'm pretty nervous to start over again at the end of the month. I won't even go into the problem I'm having trying to change a class because no one is overseeing the fucking program right now; the director is on leave for the semester, and the associate director is out until Jan. 20. Not that they should be at the beck and call of students just because we pay $22,000 a year in tuition, but you'd think someone might stick around for little issues. What do I know about running programs, though? I just got an A in public management and have been administering nonprofit programs for almost a decade. I smell some buckets. (Man, this is way more bitter than I intended it to be.)

I'll Drink to That!

A mojito in a diner cost me $8 last night. Eight dollars!!! And, of course, I could only manage to drink half of it, even though it was fairly tasty. With the first sip, my gut started to feel funny, as my liver yelled, "What are you putting in me? Get that gunk away from my pure lifestyle! Harridan!"

My liver will once again be forced to cope with one little drink, as I intend to imbibe tonight as well. Last night was the final workshop of the semester, something to celebrate. (Not that the class was completely awful, and I did learn many things, but it presented me with intellectual and emotional challenges that I am glad I don't have to face until at least Jan. 26, when school starts again. Hopefully, I'll be better equipped to cope with nasty comments, pretentious fools, and implications that I am a talentless hack now that I know how it goes. Even better, perhaps no one will be an asshole! And damn, that is one long winter break. But I digress...) I am sad that my lit class is over tonight, as I also learned a lot (and at various times, also felt like Trig Palin at the RNC convention, but overall this was not the case) and immensely enjoyed the reading we did and how the professor parsed the material to show us the craft in each piece. She's an interesting person, as were all the people in the class.

Blah blah blah. At any rate, I survived my first semester as an MFA student, and I think my liver needs to deal with my one toast. I'm hoping for a grasshopper (some green alcohol and milk)or toasted almond (amaretto and milk), but I'll settle for a amaretto sour if I must. Or cheap sangria. Whatever.

Backfire

I hate my workshop. Two weeks ago, our writing workshop professor asked us to hand in a copy of the comments we left on other students' papers so she could have a sense of what we were thinking about feedback and criticism. I suspect that my complaint about Cunty McCunterson's rude comments and illustrations in my paper played some role in this exercise. While I am not obnoxious, I also do not think I leave the most useful feedback in the world. I try my best, but sometimes I just don't know what to say. I hoped that the professor might have some useful tips for me.

Instead, she photocopied Cunty McCunterson's comments and handed them out to the class as an example of how we should all provide feedback. Of course, Cunty's comments were far more constructive when she knew that the professor would be reading them. Only an idiot would turn in something rude and insulting when she knew the prof would see it. Sigh. I knew this would backfire on me.

There's another woman in the class who didn't read anyone's work for two weeks, and yet we all workshopped her story last week. She also yelled at someone last night for using the word "analysis" to describe the analysis of film that another student wrote, insisting that "analysis" was too Freudian. (I wonder how upset she would be if she knew that I applied for a part-time data analysis job yesterday.) I watched the person whose piece we were discussing doodle in his notebook the whole time. I'm not sure he cared what anyone in the class thought.

That I am counting down until this class is over (only four to go...) is upsetting. It didn't have to be this way. I like the professor a lot on a personal level and tremendously value what her insight. But that two or three people have managed to make class so dysfunctional and unpleasant for six of us (I think one person is unperturbed because she is low key like that), infuriates me. I can't believe how much money I paid for this. I am getting things out of it, so it's not a total loss, but it's enough to make me apply for a part-time data analysis job. Ba dum dum cha.

Digging Deep

"What does this mean to you? Dig deeper!

Numerous people in my workshop wrote this comment on my story about developing breasts and being tormented by their ginormous size and then undergoing breast reduction surgery (if they bothered to give me back my paper at all, which one person did not, but that is another story). It vexes me because in many cases I don't say what the situation means because it means (or meant) nothing.

For example, I talk about how breasts have not worked out so well for the women on my maternal side. My granny is a short women who walks around stooped over, maybe partially from the two watermelons stuck to her chest. On the other hand, my mom is a woman of average height with a very small frame who had two small boobs until she lost one to cancer when I was 4 years old. The people in my class wanted to know what I thought about her scarred chest when I was growing up, and the honest answer is that I didn't. It was just a fact of life that I accepted. My mom had cancer. They had to cut off one of her boobs. The end.*

The point is that this made me realize two things. First, I am not a deep person. I really do often accept things for their surface explanation. This is not entirely true, as I also analyze certain things that happen until I've beaten the dead horse to a bloody mixed metaphor, but still - I'm shallow. The second thing is that I am lazy. I'm probably not as shallow as I claim (see dead horse metaphor), but digging deep means extra work and maybe even painful revelations, and I'm not going there. Sometimes I just want to tell a funny story. Why look for the underlying pathos just to make the story more literary? It's all very distressing to think about.

*Now you know the truth, so if I ever do write a best-selling book about puberty and there are paragraphs describing how I didn't want to get boobs because I was scared of cancer and blah blah blah, you can all go to the tabloids and say that I am a liar just like James Frey. And then I will have to lie and say that I had recovered memories in the process of writing the book and blah blah blah and it will all be very scandalous. If you do sell me out, I hope that the tabloids pay you good money. Then you can take me out for afternoon tea and we can laugh about it.

Things I Know

I know that I am not a great writer, and probably will never be a great writer.
I know that I want to be a better writer.
I know that I decided to go back to school so I could learn more about the craft of writing.
I know that attending an MFA program was a scary decision because it meant I would have to confront my lack of literary skill.
I know that I am not a lyrical or beautiful writer, but I also know that it is as hard to pull off humorous writing as it is to craft a gorgeous sentence.
I know that, although I am not a literary writer, I deserve to have my writing treated with respect.
I know that one person in my workshop thinks so lowly of me that she thought it was appropriate to leave me the following comment: "My bologna has a first name! It's n-o-t t-h-i-s s-e-n-t-e-n-c-e, p-l-e-a-s-e!"
I know that the person who wrote such an obnoxious line of criticism is capable of writing lyrical sentences.
I know that I have a published book that seems to be selling well.
I know that two publishers asked me whether I would be interested in writing more books about New York City.
I win.

Workshop

Tonight my story about developing breasts and how boobs have affected me over time will be workshopped in class. I am excited, but also nervous. The good news is that a few people already mentioned that they enjoyed reading it. (Right after I submitted my work two weeks ago, I convinced myself that I would be asked to leave the program.) Mostly, I look forward to hearing what people think I can do to make it a richer piece, but I am also relieved that at least a few people found it funny.

If I am lucky, I will avoid the same fate I suffered in class last Wednesday. My mysterious digestive ailment reared its ugly head earlier that week, plaguing me with acid reflux and cramps. The cramps and gas pockets were particularly painful on Wednesday night, and it is only a testament to how much I enjoy my literature class that I was able to focus on the discussion while simultaneously worrying that I might literally shit myself.

During the peak of my mysterious digestive ailment, I often worried that I might poop my pants, but I had never done so. As I gathered my belongings and dashed out of the classroom last Wednesday, I felt wetness on my ass. Two possible explanations ran through my head: 1. I got my period early (please, please, please); or 2. anal leakage. Whatever it was, I prayed that I did not reek. The two women who walked out with me did not seem to notice anything, so I took that as a good sign. All I can say is that I subsequently learned that anal leakage does not smell. Sigh.

Clean and Fresh

While I read How to Read Literature Like a Professor yesterday afternoon, the phone rang. Husband answered.

"It's Rebecca," he said and brought me the phone.

My cousin is a writer, so I thought I'd show off what I learned thus far. "Did you know that rain is a symbol of cleansing in literature?" I said, rather than "Hello."

She started to reply, when Husband shouted, "So's douche!!!"

My chest puffed with pride. We are so erudite in my household.

What Would CUSS Readers Do?: Lit Crit 101

Um, does anyone know anything about writing 2-3 page criticisms of short stories and essays focusing on one aspect of the work (like dialog)? Because I sure as fuck don't have a clue. I take that back - I have a clue, but only one that would lead me to write 2-3 sentences.

Advice is welcome. Recommendations of potential sources are welcome. Anything is welcome.

Update, 6:20 PM: After spending some time cruising the aisles of my local B&N, I purchased How to Read Literature Like a Professor by Thomas C. Foster. It certainly lives up to its subtitle, "A Lively and Entertaining Guide to Reading Between the Lines. While I do not think this will entirely solve my problem, it has provided me with three or four more clues as to how to write some sort of paper describing the techniques that are used in the various pieces that I am reading. I also bought a book of literary essays from 2000-2005 by J.M. Coetzee. Now I just hope that "literary essays" and "literary reviews" are synonyms for "literary criticism."

CUSS reader insight is still very welcome.

Five Things I'm Loving

1. Husband somehow wound up on John McCain's mailing list. The man is a lifelong, committed Democrat. He is never going to give money to a douche bag like McCain. Every time I find an envelope from the McCain campaign in our mail box, I think of the money they wasted sending him materials. The return envelope is one of those "No postage necessary if mailed in the United States" deals. Would it not be awesome to wrap it around a brick and send it back? Mwa ha ha ha ha.

2. Going back to school at an "older" age. When I went for my MPA, I was only 22. I didn't feel confident enough to speak up on certain issues or challenge others, so I didn't say anything. This time around, I am just as eager to learn, but I'm also not willing to sit on my opinion. Plus, I care not a whit about grades. I just want to do my best and see what happens. It's liberating.

3. My pink John Fluevog boots. And the fact that I did not pay anything near $305 for them a few years ago. (I bought them on clearance, although now I'm shitting myself at what it will cost to replace them some day.)

4. On a perfect sunny day in the mid-70s, I hopped the subway to see St. Demetrios' ankle bone. (First I went to the dentist, though. No cavaties!)

5. The good people I continue to meet in person and online.

Class

For once, a post titled "Class" has nothing to do with socioeconomic issues. Have no fear - it also does not mean that I behaved in a way which would exhibit exceptional taste. Rather, I'm excited that I started class at the New School.

My first class was a writing workshop. The instructor* is wonderful, and I think that I will learn a lot from her. There are only 10 students in the workshop, and all of us are first years. The instructor was shocked, as usually workshops are mixed between first and second year students. I've been joking that we are the special ed class. We'll get mainstreamed with the big kids next semester.

Last night I attended my second class, which is about essays and short fiction. (The cheap bastard that resides within me is especially delighted that I don't have to buy any books. All the articles are photocopied and supplied to us for free!) This class is a mix of first and second year and fiction and nonfiction students, although mostly we are first years and nonfiction folk. The instructor of this class is also thoughtful. Again, I believe that I will learn a lot.

One of the assignments was to choose an author from the syllabus and prepare a 10-15 minute oral presentation on a topic on which she/he writes. Using my usual quality barometer, I choose Edwidge Danticat because I read a glowing review of her memoir in my Bible, Entertainment Weekly. (Let's keep this fact between us.) Also, she writes about Haiti, which is a country that I know very little about but am fascinated by from cultural and policy perspectives. I also have a very tiny personal connection. When I was a wee lass, my aunt went to Haiti to do humanitarian work, and she brought me back a Creole primer and a wood table and chair set for my dolls. My aunt also served as a VISTA volunteer in the Haitian community in Miami. From what I understand, Haiti is one of those nations that has consistently been fucked by racism, poverty, and the United States meddling in its affairs, which exacerbates the first two problems. Danticat also writes about the beauty that remains in the country, so I am excited to delve into her work.

*Professor? The technical titles confuse me.

Conventions and Orientations

Twenty years ago, I sat home and watched the Republican convention on TV every day. I was annoyed that there was nothing else on the boob tube to entertain me as I worked on a Strawberry Shortcake latch hook rug. (This is not to say that I did not find the programming interesting. In fact, it hooked - hardee har har, no pun intended - me onto politics.) Today, I'm disturbed by how little of the political conventions are televised on non-cable channels. I hope people really do get their information from other reliable sources. (Or maybe everyone has cable and is glued to news programming.)

Twenty years ago, I thought that I would be a lawyer who would defend abused children when I grew up. Last night, I went to the orientation for the writing program I will attend for the next two years. It was a semi-familiar late-August event for me, as it is my third graduate program in 11 years. (I attended Fordham University Law School for two days in 1997 before acting on the realization that my childhood ambition for my adulthood was not my young adulthood ambition; I went on to receive a Masters in Public Administration with a concentration in social welfare policy from Columbia University in 2000.) My friend Kim is also attending the MFA program at New School, so I felt a little less pressure. Still, it is scary meeting new people and trying new things. After 11 years working in public service, this writing thing is very new territory.

The good news is that everyone I spoke with was friendly and interesting. While I expected people to ask me who my literary idols are (to which I would be forced to admit are Carl Hiaason, Stephen King, and Lemony Snicket) and then snub me for my low brow tastes, no such incident occurred. I even was one of the last people to leave the post-orientation social event. This is not to say that there aren't people who immediately annoyed the crap out of me (I wouldn't be me otherwise!), but really, people were awesome. I far less nervous now, and so excited to start on Tuesday.

Registration

This afternoon is the first day of registration for incoming students at the New School MFA program. Deep breath. I'm nervous as hell. The writing workshops don't scare me as much as the literary courses do. I only took one literature course in college, and that was 13 years ago. Oof. As for the writing part, I'm still grappling with the difference between "literary" versus "magazine-y" writing. For example, I consider this passage from Saturday's post about my toilet to be literary, what with the ghost imagery and all:

For the first five or so years that we resided at this apartment, our industrial-type toilet (it has no tank) dealt very effectively with the digestive abuse we hurled upon it. Then last year, I noticed a change. After I flushed and the water settled, wisps of toilet paper drifted back up from the pipe, like ghosts haunting the bowl. Even the most basic uses of the toilet required an after-flush to send the restless toilet paper souls back to their watery graves. Still, the hardier matter went away and didn't reappear.

Somehow, I suspect that working these lines into something I submit for class will not earn me accolades, though.