Go Tell It on the Mountain

Hi Everyone!

When I first arrived at Hollins in 2009, I had to be corrected when I referred to the lovely surrounding elevatory attractions as “hills.”  

No! I was informed.  These are not hills! These are Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains!   Noted.  I now make a point to compliment the mountains regularly whenever I go back.  Savannah freely admitted to its distinctly level environment.  It was well known that the city’s biggest elevation gain was one of the freeway onramps, a fact which got long distance runners in trouble when they repeatedly tried to use it to train for races occurring in more hilly locations.  Savannah itself is full of gorgeous old buildings and giant live oaks dangling Spanish Moss everywhere, but once you get a few miles outside of downtown, you get a better sense of the surrounding marshy landscape: 

no one is claiming to have any mountains there.

All that to say, one of my favorite things about living in the Northwest again is the mountains.  The real, no-doubts-about-it, high-up-in-the-sky mountains.  When you drive across Washington, you get to pass through scenes like this: 

and in college, one of my dorm bedrooms looked out onto Mount Rainier:

(although this view is from Seattle, not Tacoma).

Portland is further south than Seattle and Tacoma, and therefore has a different view of the Cascades.  On my drive to work, I sometimes see Mount St. Helen’s:

(most famous for its dramatic eruption in 1980, which explains its now modest peak) and Mt. Hood:

I say I “sometimes” see these mountains because many days, I can’t see them at all.  There’s not even a trace of them.  I hear all of you who live in this area saying, “Well, yeah!  What’s your point?”  But I hear some objections from others of you who have not lived in areas featuring both geological behemoths such as these and, shall we say, an array of forecast options.  “What are you talking about?” You are saying.  “How can a mountain be there one day and just vanish the next?  You, Sarah Jackson, have read too many children’s books.”  First of all, you can never read too many children’s books.  Let’s get that out of the way.  Second of all, it’s true!  There is often so much rain and fog and cloud cover that the mountains just disappear.  

My parents recently stayed in a hotel on Mount Hood and didn’t see the mountain the whole time!  It’s not uncommon to go weeks without seeing the mountains, but this makes it all the more striking when the sun returns and we suddenly see what’s been there all along.  

This summer, I got to go on a retreat with the Krista Foundation, a group that encourages service as a way of life for young adults.  One of the workshops I attended was about our “inner landscapes,” the terrain that characterizes our emotional, relational, spiritual life.  I realized that for me, being able to see out over a great distance, especially from a great height, is one of the most exhilarating and comforting experiences I know.  I’m a big picture person, and I love having a sense of the big picture around me.  But at that point in the year, I did not feel like I had been on a mountain in a long, long time.  I hadn’t even seen one recently.  I was beginning to wonder if they were even there behind the fog and the clouds.  

Since then, I have changed positions.  I have settled into Portland, which seems to be a good fit for me right now, and I am starting to find a community there, and activities to keep me engaged in life.  One of these activities, which fulfills a dream I’ve had for the last few years, is joining a gospel choir.  One of the songs we’ve been singing for the holidays is “Go Tell It On the Mountain,” which I’ve always loved, but which took me an embarrassingly long time to realize was a Christmas song.  (You’d think lines like “Down in a lowly manger, the humble Christ was born” would give it away, but I was distracted by what I imagined to be a bunch of people from the Ricola commercials announcing good news to each other from mountain to mountain through giant alphorns.  When I later learned that this song is an African American spiritual, I ended up with a very confusing concoction of mental images for a while.)  

But now it’s obvious to me that this is a Christmas song, for this is a season all about good news.  There may be days or months or even years when we can’t seem to find any good news or a mountain from which to shout out it.  However, this song is a song of varying heights.  It mentions not only mountains, but also the “humble Christ” in a “lowly manger.”  When the God of the universe decided to enter our world, most people didn’t notice.  Much of the time, we miss it now, too.  How could we ignore such an obvious connection between heaven and earth?  How could we be blind to such a massive, gorgeous, startling presence of sheer reality?  Part of it is that God came in a characteristically nonsensical way, obvious only to those who aren’t obvious.  Another part of it, though, is that there is an awful lot of rain and cloud in our lives.  But if I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that it’s during the foggiest times that we most need to know that there is something other than fog.  For our own sakes and for everyone else’s, we need to go and tell our good news — whatever it may be — on the mountain, even if we can’t see the mountain we’re on.

To those who celebrate it, have a Merry Christmas.  To everyone, have a joyful week, filled with good news of one kind or another.

Sarah/Mouse

Senseless

Hi Everyone,

Potty time can be a bit of an ordeal in the three-year-old room, and when you think about it, that’s understandable.  There’s a lot involved: pulling your pants off, balancing so that you don’t fall in, aiming (more or less) just so, putting your pants back on, flushing, and then quickly plugging your ears so you don’t become deafened by the loud rushing noise.  And this is all assuming that you have realized in time that you have to go!  It’s no wonder that the last important step -- washing with soap -- can sometimes be forgotten.

One little boy is usually in a particular rush to get back to whatever game he’s been playing, and needs special encouragement to wash his hands.  To make the process a little more enjoyable, I’ve started making dying germ sounds whenever he scrubs his hands.  When the germs stop screaming, he can turn the water off.  He then says cheerily, “Bye germs! See you tomorrow!” and spits summarily into the sink.

If a simple act like hand washing can require such a process, it’s certain that the other teachers and I miss some opportunities for hygienic instruction; with a room full of busy three-year-olds, it’s impossible to be a “no germ left behind” classroom.  The kids seem to come out no worse for wear.  As adults, the teachers’ immune systems, however, have been systematically weakened by decades of hazards like regular bathing and hand sanitizer.  And as the newest member on staff, I’d had the least exposure to the barrage of bacteria attacking us from every angle.  In short, I’ve been sick for the last month and a half.

On the plus side, it hasn’t been boring.  My symptoms keep changing: there was the normal cold/cough combo, then dizziness and exhaustion, then what turned out to be bronchitis.  But most recently, I’ve just been very stuffed up, and haven’t been able to smell or taste anything for about ten days.  The apple cinnamon muffins the four-year-olds were making, the smell of which was tormenting everyone else in the building?  Nope.  The garlic in my lunch?  Nope.  (Sorry, friends!)  The result of the sniff test to see if a kid’s bag of clothes was clean?  Nope.  (Sorry, co-teacher -- that one’s on you!)

After a few days, though, I got used to not using those senses.  And really, it wasn’t that big of a deal.  Whenever I’ve asked people what senses they’d cut if they had to lose two, they almost always say smell and taste.  In general, they can be pleasant and sometimes helpful aspects of our existence, but aren’t strictly necessary.  

And even though my three most crucial senses were in working order, the word “senseless” kept surfacing in my mind.  To be sure, by the most literal definition, I was senseless, at least partially.  But there are two definitions of the word “senseless.”  According to the dictionary on my computer, “senseless” can mean “incapable of sensation” and “without discernible meaning or purpose.”  Sadly, part of the reason why the word “senseless” has been on my mind so much is because of the violence in Israel and Gaza over the last two weeks.  Many people on either side of the conflict would offer heartfelt justifications for this newest edition of Retaliation Squared, would feel that further violence against the other side is the only fair form of retribution.  But when does a civilian death ever make sense?  What grief-stricken parent will ever acknowledge that her child’s death made sense to the other side’s military? 

In a way, the two definitions of “senseless” seem unrelated at best, and contradictory at worst.  One has to do with our physical sensation, the other with our mental processes.  And yet, the more I think about it, the more I step away from traditional notions about the separation of the mind and the body.  Our brains process the information that our senses experience as we interact with the world around us.  Is a lack of physical sense therefore related to a lack of human sense?  If Palestinians spent time tasting Israeli food, if Israelis spent time looking at Palestinian art, if they each spent time listening to each other -- not just to political arguments, but to their songs and stories and laughter and tears, would there be a decrease in the kind of senseless violence that has tragically characterized that region?  I honestly don’t know.  Conflicts centuries-old can’t be solved in a single paragraph.  But I do know that over the last few weeks, as my head has felt muddy and my senses have been dulled, I have felt particularly disengaged from the people and surroundings around me.  

A few days ago, with the help of extra-strong nasal spray, my sinuses calmed somewhat, and my senses of smell and taste began to return.  After a week and a half of olfactory and gustatory darkness, even the most minor sensory experiences came as a bit of a shock.  I kept smell-tasting this vague, sort of sweet odor, and couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.  Was it from the nasal spray?  Was it from some lotion I’d used?  Was it just what my nasal cavities always smelled like, and I was only just now noticing because of my heightened, almost superhero-eqsue sensory powers?  Everything was so real!  I ate a bite of salad and gasped.  Are croutons always this strong?  I could finally smell the wet leaves and the crisp autumnal air covering Portland at the moment.  As my senses returned to life, I felt more alive.  In turn, I feel more able to appreciate and care for the life around me.  

It could be mere coincidence that in this country, the two holidays most traditionally associated with family and community are also the ones associated with good smells and tastes.  Nevertheless, as we have just celebrated one, and are entering into the season leading up to the other, I want to try to savor the upcoming delicious smells and tastes even more than normal, knowing that they help me connect to people and settings outside of myself.

That said, I might not reveal my recovered ability to smell at work just yet.  I could go another few days free of sniff tests.  

Have a great week, full of good scents and good sense!  (Sorry.  I couldn’t help it.)

Sarah/Mouse

Laughter

Hi Everyone,

I have always been a bit embarrassed by my biblical namesake.  For years, Sarah, the wife of Abraham, seemed to me to be one of those characters whose presence in Scripture serves as an example of what not to do.  The story I had in mind comes from Genesis 18, when three visitors, understood to be messengers from God, visit Abraham and Sarah, both nonagenarians, and promise them a son.  Sarah responds by laughing, which is taken to be a sign of her lack of faith.  As a five-or-six-year-old, I found this story very upsetting.  You don’t laugh at God when He promises you something.  If I’d received a message from God, I certainly would not have laughed.

And perhaps five-or-six-year-old (other) Sarah wouldn’t have either.  Perhaps she would have had enough unadulterated belief at that point in her life that she could have swallowed crazy stories from a God she couldn’t see, without a trace of skepticism.  But the older we get, the more we learn not to take people literally.  We are constantly bombarded by pledges which we dismiss (almost) entirely: “Best burgers in America!” “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met!” “Only you can prevent forest fires!” “If elected, I will restore the economy!”   A kernel of hope may begin to grow in us when we hear these things (“What if these really ARE the best burgers in America?”  “What if my efforts to prevent environmental destruction actually made a tangible difference?”)  But we suppress it, partly due to our experience of repeated disappointments, and partly because we know that we ourselves are not always to be trusted.  It’s easier to react as Sarah did, laughing at promises too good to be true to prevent us from crying when we discover they are impossible.

Over the last year, I too have wrestled with cynicism as I’ve tried to determine what the next stage of my life will look like.  My ever-patient parents bore the brunt of my negativity, as I scoffed dramatically at the notion that anyone anywhere would ever want to employ me.  My laughter was distinctly ugly.  It sounded like fear with tinny echoes alternating between self-pity and self-loathing.  In a particularly exasperated moment, I wrote this poem:

     Narcissus Contemplates Divorce

     I’d been courting myself for years,

     but I proposed my freshman year of college.

     Nothing is sure in adolescence, but there, 

     amidst photographable brick arches and 

     impromptu late night roommate talks,

     I knew:

     I was the One.

     We were married two years later,

     myself and I,

     on the handsome coast of Northern Spain,

     verdurous hills and ruddy independence 

     my bridesmaids, a drunken seagull 

     my ring bearer.

     “For better or worse,” we vowed,

     and seeing Better reflected in our eyes,

     we meant it.

     The honeymoon was lengthy,

     as we traveled and explored our globe-home,

     the way everyone told us we should:

     “while you’re not tied down.”

     I learned about my delightfully complex self, 

     imbibing wide-eyed life lessons

     like wine coolers.

     Now, though, I wonder at myself.

     Who are you? I ask, and receive only echo.

     Reflections have lost their luster,

     features flattened by time and tension.

     Busy, crowded, Better had allowed me to ignore

     ugliness lingering, wallowing, simmering,

     in my core.

     Perhaps we were wrong,

     myself and I.

     We were naive.  We were Better then.

     We coldly consider possibilities:

     separation, annulment, divorce.

     Myself’s cynicism, a loaded diaper, hangs from me,

     weighing me down bottom first. But 

     loath to disappoint myself or any passersby,

     I inject hope and confidence 

     at the end of conversations and poetry

     with a needle the size of my ego’s phantom.

     Leaving cheap Chap Stick kisses on the mirror,

     I attempt to fool myself into loving again.

     Our eyes link and leak hope in short, cathartic bursts 

     like comic relief at a funeral.

     Who are you? my reflection returns,

     and as silence beats a steady drum,

     we march on.

I was more like Sarah than I thought: Cynical Sarah, Doubter of Promises.  

Except that Sarah was wrong.  About nine months after the three visitors announce their ludicrous message, she gives birth to a son.  Abraham names him Isaac, Hebrew for “laughter.”  I’ve always understood this to be purely delicious irony, a giant “I told you so!” from God.  But recently, I’ve come to see Isaac’s name as a profound gift to Sarah, for even as she was laughing in scorn, Laughter himself was being formed within her.  Whenever she called out her son’s name, she could be reminded of how her cynical dismay had turned to hopeful joy. 

And over the last few months, I suspected that I too was wrong, even though I was too cautious to admit it fully.  When I left Savannah, a friend from my church made me a bookmark with this Bible verse: “She is clothed with strength and dignity, she can laugh at the days to come” (Proverbs 31:25). Since I got the bookmark, I confess that much of my laughter at the days to come has been laced with doubt and downright negativity.  But the whole point of a bookmark is to show a work in progress.  So as I’ve continued to read (and/or write) the next chapter in my life as I’ve moved to Portland, I have been grateful to realize that laughter has been forming in me all along too.  For me, as it was with Sarah, joyful laughter is both a method of pushing through cynicism, and an indication that I already have already done so. 

I have many things to keep me laughing here in Portland:

1.) My housemates.  Molly and Lucy, are fantastic and welcoming and hilarious.  

Molly, me and Lucy at Multnomah Falls

We spend a good majority of our time together laughing, which, in my opinion, is an essential activity in friendship, and in being at home.  

2.) My city.  Part of the reason I wanted to move to Portland is because of its reputation for weirdness, and I have not been disappointed.  This last weekend, for example, a new friend and I went to the West Coast Giant Pumpkin Regatta, in which participants kayaked across a lake in giant pumpkins: 

"Splash Gourdon" has apparently participated in the race for many years now.

The official Seed Extractor.  Crucial job.  Mustache required.

Some other racers.  Waldo won the prize for best costume.

The gentleman in black is the mayor of Tualatin, 

the host of the West Coast Giant Pumpkin Regatta.

This racer valiantly chose to navigate the largest pumpkin at the race, 

originally weighting over 1500 lbs.

3.) My job.  Yes, I do have one.  I suppose if I’m going to get an “I told you so!” I’m glad it comes with a job attached.  I have been working mostly full time at a preschool just north of Vancouver, and while I’m still considering other options, this has been incredibly helpful as I’ve settled here.  

I’ll write more on life in Portland next time, but for now, I’ll leave you with one of my favorite conversations from the preschool:

     A three-year-old, totally out of the blue: “You have to be 16 to have beer.”

     Me: “Actually, you have to be 21.”

     Three-year-old: “Yeah... on my next birthday, I’m going to be 21.”

Ah, to have the faith of a child! 

Thank you for all of your encouragement as I’ve made this move, and may you all live into deep laughter in the upcoming week!

Sarah/Mouse

More Amazing Journal Highlights

Hi Everyone,

As I mentioned last week, I’m moving to Portland this Sunday.  Because I’m in the middle of transitioning, I thought it would be a good time for another round of highlights from my Amazing Journal, especially since it’s been almost a year since the last one.  Here they are:

My most recent Amazing Journals

November 16, 2011: Today I read about how SCAD has been on this list of schools that restrict academic freedom (it has been on the list for the last two decades).  They tried recently to get off the list but when the people came recently to evaluate the school, SCADMINISTRATION restricted where they could go and who they could talk with.  So no . . . 

November 19, 2011: Today I learned that when you’re holding a chicken, if you twist its body back and forth, its head will stay in the same position, like a weighted ball that won’t ever roll over properly.

November 25, 2011: Today when Erin and I were at lunch, Erin noticed an older gentleman at a nearby table who had an acorn tucked behind his ear.  Did it just land there and he didn’t notice, or did he put it there for some reason?

December 3, 2011: Today I overheard two ladies speaking in some Slavic-sounding language in Forsyth.  Then all of a sudden, I heard a word I recognized: Effingham.  Of course.

December 4, 2011: Today when I went to check in to my flight online, I was told I couldn’t because I was an infant and my guardian needed to do it in person.

December 6, 2011: Today, I went to STCU [my bank] and saw a sign with a triceratops riding a horse.  I asked what that was about and was told the triceratops was riding a carousel.   OOOHHH!  Well, that explains it, then.

December 13, 2011: Today I remembered that yesterday, UPS sent me a letter asking for a donation of $0.  That doesn’t inspire confidence in either UPS or in me!

January 15, 2012: Today I ordered a chai from the Rocket Bakery, and it came in a very plain white mug.  I was going along when all of a sudden, I spotted what seemed to be a kiwi in my drink! It turns out that it was a green ceramic fish glued to the inside of this fish.  Why? So, so weird.  And terrifying.

February 14, 2012: Today I read about a shark that swallowed another shark! It’s a carpet shark, and apparently can unhinge its jaws so it can swallow large prey.  Oh perfect.  Because the only thing nicer than a shark is a SNAKE shark disguised as a rug.  Oh joy.

April 3, 2012: Today Marcy, Frank and I saw a guy walking with two other people who were dressed normally. He was covered head to toe in a grassy substance that made him look like Chubaka gone to seed.

April 6, 2012: Today John and Pooja got an inspection of the sewer system at their new home.  They were given the results on a DVD and it came with a bag of popcorn.  When the video robot came to the part where there were roots pressing into the pipe, it couldn’t get through and it just kept slamming against it like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

April 28, 2012: Today we discovered that a (very tame) marmot had made a nest in the bonnet of Claude [our Toyota Camry]! It had spent the night in the garage and had chewed at the insulation in the door trying to get out.

May 24, 2012: Today, as I turned onto Strong Road, there was this magic floating cotton storm, except it was sunny and calm and lovely.  I felt like I was in a movie.

June 10, 2012: Today, on the way to the Tallahassee airport, we were on a very deserted back road early in the misty morning and we saw one man walking on the shoulder and another walking very determinedly toward him.  That one had a cowboy hat on and it seemed like they were about to have a duel.

July 23, 2012: Today I was embarrassed to learn that one of the books I’d gotten for Paul Zelinsky to sign was already inscribed by several people.  But fortunately, it was inscribed to someone named Sarah, so I totally pulled it off!

August 19, 2012: Today, when Daddy and I were taking out the ceiling in my bathroom, we found a ball of my hair in the space leading to the laundry room.  It looked like a cobweb made of hair and I have no idea how it got there.

August 24, 2012: Today I saw a person busking.  He was wearing black from head to toe and was wearing a Darth Vader mask.   He was also playing the fiddle.

September 6, 2012: Today I saw what I was convinced was a dead vervet monkey by the side of the highway as I was leaving Portland.  Even this city’s roadkill is weird!

September 7, 2012: Today, at Bennidito’s, a family was sitting outside near us.  For some reason, they went over and sat outside Subway for a while.  When they came back, the son, who was maybe eight or so, gasped, leapt up and said, “My toothpick!”  He sprinted back over to the table outside Subway and retrieved the toothpick.  Crisis averted.

September 15, 2012: Today I babysat the Van Sickles and we made a rainbow angel food cake that basically looked like a brick of cotton candy.

Next time, I’ll be writing from Portland!  I have gotten several requests for my new address.  Let me know if you’d like it, and I’d be happy to pass it along.

Have an amazing week!

Sarah/Mouse

Super Patient

Hi Everyone,

This spring, I stumbled upon some stickers I’d gotten from the doctor’s office when I was little.  I gave most of them away to the triplets as math prizes, but I kept this one:

“This,” I told myself, “is exactly what I need to be.”  I’m sure any of you who have been around the health professions for longer than half a second are completely fed up with the “patients”/”patience” play on words.  (“Yes, I’m a doctor.  Yes, I have patients.  BUT NOT WITH THAT JOKE!”)  So my apologies for this mediocre-at-best pun.  I have a pun scale which I use to evaluate my family’s puns, and this would register somewhere between a 1 and a 2 out of 10... definitely in the category of “not worth mentioning.”  But I am mentioning it nonetheless because for me, this past year has been characterized by both kinds of “patient,” so the sticker seemed particularly appropriate.

I’ve spent much more time at the doctor’s this year than I normally do.  Since November, I have had foot surgery, and have experienced an increase in tonsil stones.  I have got the worst flu/cold/cough combo I’ve ever known, and have had chronic dry eye (or “chapped eyeballs” as my doctor explained it to me).  I have sprained my ankle, encountered random numbness in my right elbow, and my knees have started popping with every step I take.  I have discovered the hard way that I’m allergic to a certain brand of contact, and have experienced a mild resurgence of tachycardia (what my friend calls “hummingbird heart”).  The most uncomfortable issue was a cornea infection, but really, none of these things are all that serious.  And since they’ve been spread out over the course of the year, it hasn’t been nearly as dramatic as I’ve just made it sound.  But of course, my incessant English Major mind has attempted to find deep significance in these mild maladies, resonating with other aspects of my life.  For example: “Well, maybe, just maybe, you’re having trouble with your eyes because you’re in a place of uncertainty right now, and you’re having trouble seeing what’s ahead.”  Or “Perhaps your inability to walk without foot or leg discomfort indicates a concern about taking the next step in life.”  This is why they shouldn’t hire lit majors to write horoscopes.

The truth is that it’s been much harder to be the other kind of patient over this last year.  I used to think I was good at waiting.  I genuinely enjoy standing in (most) lines or looking forward to snail mail arriving.  But those experiences are enjoyable because I know a.) what I’m waiting for, and b.) more or less how long I have to wait.  Also, these are examples of waiting that I have chosen to participate in.  As I’ve been applying for jobs over the past 9 or so months, I have been forced to wait for whatever is coming up next without knowing what it will be, when it will come, or how exactly I’ll discover it.  

In Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, Maria (as Olivia) writes to Malvolio, “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.”  I’m beginning to feel like I’m one of those people who needs to have virtues thrust upon me if I’m going to have them at all.  Perhaps real patience, like courage or endurance, can be achieved only by living through situations that require it.  Perhaps it’s not that we simply have patience, and then find occasions to use it, but rather that we encounter the situations, and then come through them equipped with patience.  Or maybe I’m focusing too much on the causal effect chickens have on eggs, when the opposite is equally true.  But the point is that right now, at least, I don’t feel as though I have a whole lot of choice about being patient.  I’m pretty sure that if I did, I would have chosen employment months ago.

Choice, though, is complicated.  Over the summer, I decided to move to Portland, OR, at the end of this month to live with my Hollins friend Lucy, and her sister Molly.  I’m really excited about living with them, and about living in what seems like an ideal city for my interests and stage of life.  But of course, with rent and other payments on the horizon, and no tangible job prospects, it’s feeling increasingly risky.

Over the past few months, it’s felt like I’ve been waiting in line to ride a roller coaster.  I’ve now gotten in the car, and the restraints have locked into place.  We’ve started and are chugging up the first hill.  The crest is getting closer and closer, and my adrenaline is beginning to kick in.  I’ve gone on roller coasters before, and I’ve seen people emerge from this one not only unscathed, but ecstatic.  And yet all the logic my brain can muster up does not translate to my worried tummy.  Where does choice come in at this point?  Not that I necessarily want to, but I can’t reasonably back out now.  And yet, I chose to get in the line and let the restraints lock me in the car.  Basically, it was my choice to surrender my choice.  

It’s the risk that is making patience so difficult.  It’s the possibility that even though I don’t think it will happen, even though I don’t believe it will happen, things could come crashing down in a disastrous heap.  But where the sticker helps out yet again: 

if the roller coaster does somehow come unhinged and we go tumbling through the air, I can always rely on my cape!

Have a good week!

Sarah/Mouse

Pretty Woman?

Hi Everyone,

About a year ago, I came across an article written by Lisa Bloom that has changed the way I interact with women, particularly young girls.  I recommend reading it if you haven’t already (here's the link).  Her main point was that very often, our first instinct when we talk with girls is to comment on their physical appearance.  She connects this habit to the continued objectification of women, and to the increasing concern about physical appearance among very young girls.  

I don’t consider myself someone who is obsessed with superficial appearances, and one of my favorite things to do is to have intelligent discussions with children.  So I was surprised and embarrassed when I analyzed my own interactions with women and girls.  Very often, I realized with chagrin, I am completely guilty of the trend that Bloom describes.  I frequently start conversations with a comment like, “Hey, Stephanie!  Nice shirt!” or “Hi, Helen!  I like your haircut!”  I think that we begin conversations with women this way partly because the easiest way to start a conversation is by mentioning something visible, and partly because we genuinely want to compliment the people we’re speaking with.  And what’s wrong with that?  

Nothing, except that we tend to do this much more with girls than with boys.  And, as Bloom points out, this trend reemphasizes long held cultural assumptions that girls and women are meant to be objects of beauty in ways that boys and men are not.  Several months ago, a few friends and I got in a discussion about whether men and women have fundamentally different parenting roles apart from the obvious biological differences.  This is part of a larger question that humans have been asking for millennia, but which has had particular weight in our cultural discourse in the last century or so: Are men and women fundamentally different?  (This, of course, doesn’t even begin to acknowledge the question of transgender or transsexual people, and the idea that sex is not as binary as we tend to think of it.)

That’s far too weighty a question for a small person like me to tackle.  But this spring, as I was tutoring the triplets in math, I was reminded of it as we worked with basic equalities like, “5 pennies + 2 dimes = ?”  I’m assuming that most of you passed third grade math, and that you recognize that there are a number of correct answers: “25 pennies,” “1 quarter,” “5 nickels,” etc.  So is “5 pennies + 2 dimes” the same as “1 quarter”?  Of course not!  The coins in each group look different, weigh different amounts, and have different names.  But what the girls understood was that “5 pennies + 2 dimes” have the same value as “1 quarter.”  

I believe that the same is true of people.  It is obvious that men and women are not the same.  We wouldn’t need different words to distinguish them if they were.  But virtually all of the people I respect agree that men and women have the same value.  (I make a few exceptions for brilliant writers or thinkers who I like to pretend would support this notion had they been born a few centuries later.)  So there we go.  Solution!  Women and men are different but equal.

Except that “different but equal” begins to sound frighteningly like “separate but equal.” All analogies fail after a certain point, and in my experience, when they lead you to start thinking like the verdict of Plessy v. Ferguson, it’s time to bail ASAP.  The difference between the equations “5 pennies + 2 dimes = 1 quarter” and “men = women” is that the main function of all coins is to represent monetary value.  Any differences between pennies, dimes and quarters are superficial, merely for the sake of convenience or aesthetics.  

In the second equation, though, even if we agree that men and women have equal value (and sadly, there are still many people who do not), we don’t all agree on how value is measured.  Is it contribution to society?  Do people have value by fulfilling whatever duties they have?  If so, how do we determine and then compare the worth of these duties?  Or is value something which all humans have simply by existing, and we all have equal amounts of it regardless of how we act?  

Even if we could somehow determine that a traditionally masculine task like changing the oil in the car is of equal value to a traditionally feminine task such as doing laundry, there are several major problems.  First, aside from being impossible, this system rules out potential development.  As long as it remains in circulation (and doesn’t get put on a train track or used in a craft project), a penny can only ever be a penny.  The upside and the downside to people is that they are infinitely more complicated than pennies.  Our skills and abilities are not fixed; as we live, we change, we learn, we grow.  I might not know how to change the oil in a car, but I could learn how to.  (And though I do pride myself on being able to do my laundry, I would hope that any independent 27-year-old, regardless of gender, color, or creed, would be able to shove a week’s worth of dirty clothes into the machine, dump a bit of soap in the right compartment, and press “start.”  And for the record, if any of you guys were to tell me you can’t, I can assure you I won’t be overwhelmed with your manliness and ask permission to have your babies.)

But perhaps the biggest problem is that whenever we assign each other roles where money or power is involved (when men are still earning more than their female counterparts, or when most politicians, pastors, college presidents are men), things become complicated.  We value money and power because they give us agency in our society, so when we assign societal roles (which come with money and/or power) to people based on arbitrary traits like race or gender, we invariably grant agency to some, and deny it to others.  As Brown v. Board of Education showed, “separate but equal” is always impossible, even in theory. 

None of this pondering and pontificating solves the question of what I should have been saying to the triplets when I arrived at their house.   Should I have just ignored the fact that they are three bright and beautiful girls?  Should I have mentioned only their academic or athletic abilities?  As an artist, I consider it part of my duty to celebrate visual beauty when I see it, so I resist the idea that we should just not tell girls they are beautiful in order to show them they are more than visual objects.  However, I think Bloom’s argument is valid, that by mentioning primarily their appearance, we associate female identity with physical beauty at the expense of other characteristics.  So, now, in speaking with girls and women, I try to comment on at least one of their other attributes before mentioning their appearance.  I want them to know I am interested in them as whole people, that their visual beauty is part of a larger beauty.  

One thing Bloom does not address is how to talk with boys.  I want them to know I am interested in them as whole people too, and so I have to believe that to neglect their physical appearance is also detrimental.  Men are no less beautiful than women, but our conversations consistently reinforce the contrary.  By allowing beauty to be both masculine and feminine, we crumble one of the divides we have constructed between men and women.  Recognizing beauty in boys does not have to be -- and should not be -- awkward.  After all, boys wear shirts and get hair cuts too.  

But perhaps even more important than recognizing physical qualities in boys is to help boys -- and everyone -- recognize beauty in others.  Because in seeing other people as beautiful, we break down some of the barriers we erect between “us” and “them.”  Today, as we honor the victims of 9/11 and its aftermath, it is especially important to remember that difference -- of nationality, of race, of religion, of gender -- can so easily separate us from each other with horrific consequences.  The most important battles must be fought over and over again, and so while we (our country’s legal system) overturned Plessy v. Ferguson in 1954, we (the people) must continue to overturn it every day in our actions, words and thoughts.  One way we can do this is by training ourselves to see and celebrate beauty in other people, be they men or women.

As always, I welcome your thoughts, particularly if you think differently from me!  

Have a good week!

Sarah/Mouse

An Exceedingly Lengthy Explanation For Why I Haven't Written, Plus Some Thoughts About Labor Day

Hi Everyone,

Yet again, there has been a long hiatus since my last letter.  Of course, as always, I’ve had a lot going on.  In the spring, I had a handful of odd jobs that kept me hopping around town trying to scrape together some money for this summer.  And then, before going back to Hollins again, I traveled for two weeks.  I visited Savannah again, went to a wedding in Florida with some of my close Hollins friends (don’t worry -- it was the wedding of another of our close Hollins friends -- we didn’t just pick a state at random and then find a wedding to crash), went to Boston, where I stayed with my friend from preschool and her daughter, and then I attended and presented at a conference.  Finally, of course, I got to Hollins, and it was characteristically full of top-notch people, thought-provoking books, and spectacular views of the Blue Ridge Mountains dozing away the muggy Virginian summer.  Since I’ve been back in Spokane, apart from a week-long trip to Canada with my parents to see my brother’s play at the Victoria Fringe Festival, I’ve spent my time hanging out with my parents, working on a few freelance art projects, and fervently applying for jobs.  (Job hunting is so darn enjoyable that I’ll save my ample thoughts on that activity for another time.)  So, as you can see, I’ve been busy.

But busy isn’t a great excuse, really.  For one thing, I’ve had periods in my life when I’ve been much busier than I have been in the last six months or so, and I have still been able to maintain a more regular schedule for writing these letters.  I could have made time if I’d really wanted.  As I think about it, I believe that the real reason I haven’t written is that after hunting and applying for jobs, and writing essays or creative pieces for school, and reading and responding to emails, and formatting artwork for various projects, I am so sick of my computer by the end of the day, that I avoid it.  (That being said, this week marks the third anniversary of my computer’s and my partnership, and I am very grateful for it.  A while ago, I told my roommate at SCAD, “My computer is definitely the best big investment I’ve made.”  Then I thought for a second and added, “Oh.  And my education.”  It really depends on the day which I think is winning in overall usefulness.)

Another reason “busy” does not cut it as an excuse for not writing these letters is that virtually everyone is busy these days.  In our culture, this word is synonymous for being alive.  It’s gone from describing a temporary state of being to a longterm condition.  It’s risen quickly to the top of the list of acceptable responses to the question, “How are you?”, bypassing distinguished stalwarts such as “Fine, thank you,” or “Well, and yourself?”  We’re not really “bad.”  But often, we’re not really “good,” either (don’t even get me started on the moral implications these linguistically negligent responses entail . . .)  We’re just “busy,” scurrying around trying to get from one thing to the next.  

Busyness seems to be part of our genetic makeup.  It’s just who I am, right?: I am short, female, and white(ish) in skin color.  I have blonde(ish) hair and terrible eyesight (no “ish” about that!).  I am 27 years old, and I am busy.   And who knows?  Maybe in the next few years, we’ll discover that some people are naturally more prone to busyness than others.  (I did just read an article about how being a night owl is a genetic trait, so I wouldn’t be surprised.)  

However, busyness also seems to be part of our cultural DNA.  We’ve all heard sweeping generalizations about other cultures being slower-paced and less work-oriented than ours.  And from the travel I have done, I’d say this is (generally) true.  My favorite line from the French film Amélie comes when the title character gives a beggar a few coins, and he says, “Sorry, Madam.  I don’t work on Sundays.”  The French not only know how to take a break -- they have perfected it.  Had they been around during Creation Week, I suspect they would have protested for a two-day Sabbath.  Meanwhile, here in the US, or so the stereotype goes, we go, go, go, more concerned with what we do than who we are.  

Sweeping is a mildly infuriating activity for a perfectionist like myself because it is impossible to ever collect all the dirt; the bristles in a broom always leave some of it out.  The same is true with sweeping generalizations.  Even if they describe the majority of people in a certain scenario most of the time, there are always exceptions.  Obviously, there are people in France who are busy, just as there are people in the States who aren’t.  But I do think that there are societies where it’s especially difficult to keep one’s schedule free of clutter.  Either the expectation or the temptation to add activity to our lives is always lingering in the wings.  It’s like cell phone possession: it’s not unheard of to not have a cell phone (until January of this year, I was the only one in my family who did), but to not have one is rare enough that a.) it takes a strong will to resist the cultural norm, and therefore, b.) you stand out if you don’t have one.  I have, on occasion, met non-busy people in the States, and I find them intriguing and comforting and profoundly enviable.  I heard once that “busy” could be an acronym for “Being Under Satan’s Yolk.”  Yikes!  I don’t think I’d go quite that far (after all, it could also be an acronym for “Beatific Undertaker Stalks Yeti,” though that does lose some of the moralistic undertones).  But I have definitely felt yolked to my busyness at times, and I am sure that I’ll be struggling with it for the rest of my life.

Labor Day is a rather ironic holiday; we take a day off work to celebrate workers and industry.  It reminds me a bit of when I was in South Africa, and for one day, many people refused to go to work to protest rising food costs, and chose to spend their extra time standing in long lines at the grocery stores buying said expensive food.  I’ve never paid much attention to Labor Day.  Usually I am much more occupied with a new school year starting up, or with the fact that fresh apple cider will soon be available at Greenbluff.  But this year, as I have work and busyness on my mind, I’m considering it a bit more.  Perhaps in this holiday, we have it right, or at least right-er than normal.  One of the quotes I included on my high school yearbook page was an African proverb (sorry -- I don’t know which country it comes from): “Work is good, provided you do not forget to live.”  In theory, on Labor Day, we recognize the importance of work, but we also remember to live. 

Have a great week, full of work and full of living!

Sarah/Mouse

ps: Despite all these ramblings about busyness, I vow to be more industrious in writing these letters from now on.  I’ll check in next week.

Happy (Belated) Advent!

Hello Everyone,

Wow! You have probably noticed that I have taken a long (and unannounced) hiatus from these letters. My apologies! As usual, I have had a lot going on, but the last two months or so have involved a lot of writing, so I have needed to turn from writing, rather than to it, for a break. Just to catch you up, here are some of the things that I’ve been working on since Christmas or so: I am taking another online class at Hollins, this one on Tomboys in children’s literature. For a while, I was also working on revising a paper I began last summer so I could submit it for a conference this summer. I have started teaching art classes at my house twice a week, which has been great fun, and I’m really excited to work with the dozen or so kids who attend. I have also been substitute teaching at Saint George’s, my K-12 school, and through that, have been connected with some tutoring opportunities. In addition to helping some folks with writing, I am meeting with Austrian triplets twice a week to help them with their math. They are fantastic, bright girls who have a great sense of humor and have a curious obsession with drawing “wonderful wampires,” as they pronounce it. Then, when I have a bit of time, I’m also applying for more long-term teaching jobs for after my summer term at Hollins. So I’ve certainly been keeping busy, but I’m grateful to have settled into something of a routine in the last few weeks. And that more or less catches us up to speed. Now on to other matters:

If you’ve been reading these letters for a while now, you’ll know that I’ve written about Advent several times over the last few years. Advent is the four weeks in the church calendar leading up to Christmas, when Christians celebrate the coming of Jesus. This is my favorite time of the year because it’s all about waiting, and I love waiting. I’m sure at this point, many of you are saying, “Sarah Jackson, this proves you are certifiable.” But it’s true. I love how when I’m waiting for something, it forces me to slow down and concentrate on whatever it is I’m waiting for, which helps me appreciate it all the more. I doubt the bread sticks at Bennidito’s would taste as good if we didn’t have to wait for them to be made. I imagine the Harry Potter series would not have been as successful if the seven books and eight movies had come out all at once. I don’t think mailing a package would be as exciting if I didn’t have to stand in line at the post office. Okay, bad example. Going to the post office is ALWAYS exciting.

But the point is that Advent is a time of anticipation. It means “arrival,” and a quick perusal of a thesaurus (because perhaps the only thing as thrilling as standing in line at the post office is perusing a thesaurus) reveals words colored by excitement and expectancy: appearance, emergence, materialization, occurrence, dawn, birth, rise, development, approach, coming. This is not a dull time of the year. This is the seasonal equivalent of the drive to the airport to welcome a dear friend who you haven’t seen in years. This is a big deal. To some folks, this is the Big Deal.

So why on earth am I bringing up Advent now, almost two months after it finished, and as we are about to enter into Lent, an equally significant time of the year for Christians? Well, to be honest, mostly because though I started this letter before Christmas, I have had time to finish it only now. But in many ways, I feel like I am still in an Advent mindset. Like many recent graduates, I am in a limbo stage of life, in a constant state of waiting and preparation. Much of what I do on a daily basis is to get ready in some way for the future. (“This would be a good opportunity to put on my resumé,” “Perhaps one of these applications will pan out and I might have a -- gasp! -- ‘real’ job!” etc.) And yet, in Advent, we know what we’re waiting for, while now I feel clueless most of the time. For the first time, I’m beginning to understand what it felt like to be an Israelite waiting for her Messiah. They didn’t know exactly what he would be like, or exactly what he would do. They didn’t even know when exactly he would come. I feel similarly oblivious. I am confident that something will happen. I am confident that it will be good. But I can’t possibly know what it will look like. Most of the people who have been asking me bigger deal, life-y questions recently have been receiving uncharacteristically short responses: “I’m not sure;” “Maybe;” “I have literally no idea.” My prayers, which normally resemble my voicemails in their rambling nature, have become incredibly concise: “Dear God, I don’t know. Amen.”

So in the middle of this I Don’t Know Time, I am trying to take lessons from Advent. It has been humbling to have to admit that the phrase “be present,” which I find sickeningly cliché, is probably the best advice I’ve been given in this stage of life. It is easy to disregard these kind of in-between times, thinking they are merely preludes to the real show. But to ignore them would be like drawing a map of a river without including any of the bridges that span the banks. During Advent, Christians often light candles on a wreath each week to represent different gifts that Christ brings: hope, peace, joy, and love. However, these are not simply rewards that we get once we have patiently made it through Advent. They are also tools that help with the waiting. So how do I “be present” while still anticipating something greater in the future? Cultivate hope, carve out space in my schedule to let in peace, pursue activities and people that give me joy, and always, always prioritize love. These seem like platitudes, like they could be printed in fancy mauve script on those birthday cards you never manage to read through in their entirety, or etched into smooth river stones tastefully scattered next to outdoor fountains in suburban gardens. But my trusty OED reminds me that “platitude” comes from the French word for “flat.” And hope, peace, joy, and love are anything but flat -- on the contrary, they give life dimension.

Of course, all of that is much easier said than done. And so now that I’ve said it, I’m trying to figure out how to do it. Suggestions, as always, are welcome!

Have a great week!

Sarah/Mouse