The title sounds fun, but it’s kind of a sad poem. Sorry. I just wrote it on an airplane. I might read it this weekend atSaturday Night Special, along with this poem, since they seem to both fall under the I am uncomfortable with my female body theme. I don’t write poems often, so two poems in half a year is kind of a roll for me. This weekend will be the last time Tomas Moniz hosts Saturday Night Special, so that’s sad, but it’s good motivation to get my butt down there since I haven’t been for quite a few months, and it’s always a fun and enlightening time.
I don’t want boobs, Melissa said. We lay in the grass, Knees bent, staring at the sky. It was very blue. The grass was very green. The day was lazy and perfect. For now, We matched it. I knew her terror exactly.
I looked at our legs, Summer-scabbed and dirty. Someday soon, These legs would grow thick and fleshy And inexplicably bald. Strange dark smells Would come from us, and the blood We’d been told so, so much about. Our lankiness Would become soft and maternal. We would become frivolous.
We knew. We knew what women were. The mystery was how it would happen, By what process would our bodies come To betray us.
Me, neither, I said. We lay very still. The breeze Blew the tall grass, our long, messy hair.
It was all I could say. I couldn’t tell her About the new, tiny breasts I hid under My thick sweatshirt all summer, my mother’s Assessing gaze as I bathed. Her comment: Your period might start early. Just that, but I could tell the words chilled Her blood the same way they chilled mine. How I’d pulled my old doll from the high shelf That night, held her tattered body close until I could sleep.
Today I ran into a few of my colleagues having a “kids these days” conversation in the copy room. I am really lucky not to encounter too many of these at work. Complaining about students is like tequila shots or Girl Scout cookies–appealing in the moment, but afterwards you feel sick. Lots of teacher-training activities actually have a “no complaining” rule built in, because, like tequila and Girl Scout cookies, once you start it’s hard to stop.
These particular complaining teachers are all nice people and good teachers and love their students, and they probably just have stronger stomachs than I do. And some of what they said was right. According to them, kids these days:
Can’t stop staring at their phones
Use text-message shorthands in their formal writing
Have illegible handwriting
Write in pencil when they should use ink
Can’t write a complete, grammatical sentence.
I have to admit, it’s all true. In the fifteen years or so I’ve been teaching English, students have gotten worse in all these areas. (Except they always had bad grammar and I don’t care if they write in pencil). But I don’t believe things just decline, especially not massive, undefined, complex things like “kids these days.” I was pretty sure the kids must be spending all that time when they’re not practicing their handwriting and spelling out the word “Y-O-U” doing something productive. And yeah, I can think of a bunch of things kids these days (“kids” being my students) are doing better than they did when I started teaching:
Using the internet to create and promote their own art, music, films and writing
Judging a credible website from a sketchy one
Teaching me how to use updated versions of Word and Powerpoint
Treating students who are different with compassion and respect
Caring about racism and wanting to discuss news stories about racism
Not saying “ew” when the word “gay” is mentioned
Feeling safe enough to come out, and supporting their friends who have come out
Reading for fun (thanks to Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, etc.)
Wearing clothing that covers their butt-cracks.
There! Ten things! My students are way better at all these things than they were a decade ago. And in my opinion, if I have to trade these things for never capitalizing the word “I” or not being able to put down their (fucking) phones, I’ll take it.
I love when I run into news (good news) about people I know. I don’t know why–it just seems really thrilling to pick up a weekly paper and see someone I know on the cover or featured in a story inside. It gives me a feeling that people around me are doing amazing things all the time, and I love feeling like that.
This morning, I walked past the stack of East Bay Express newspapers in the coffee shop where I was writing, and I recognized the person on the cover: Xavier Dphrepaulezz, the musician known as Fantastic Negrito. Fantasic Negrito has a practice space and art gallery in the same building where I and my gang of small lady ninjas hold our late-night workouts.
I took a picture to post on Facebook. In my caption, I called Xavier my neighbor. When I wrote about Fantastic Negrito before, I also called him my neighbor, and a few of my friends asked for clarification. He’s not your real neighbor, right? He’s your neighbor in your training space. They weren’t trying to be picky or strict sticklers for the truth, just trying to get a mental picture of who this person was and how I knew him. But I think there was also a bit of an implication that I was being misleading, that he wasn’t my real neighbor. Real neighbors live where you live, not work where you work or play music where you exercise.
So for my picture of the East Bay Express cover, I thought about modifying the word “neighbor” for my caption. I could say “basement neighbor” (since our training space is in/called the basement), though Fantastic Negrito is not in the basement but way up above us, on the much snazzier second floor. Or I could say, “training space neighbor.”
Giving it some thought, I decided on just “neighbor.” First of all, Jack London Square, where our workout space is located, is only two miles from my apartment near Lake Merritt. I ride my bike there most nights. While I wouldn’t call it my neighborhood in most situations, it does in many ways feel like my neighborhood, a spot on the map of my life, a place that feels almost in sight of where I live.
But more than that, I realized that a neighbor of my basement space is really just a neighbor, and that is because the space is part of my home. That’s a really amazing thing to realize.
We’ve been training in the space for a little more than two years. We first rented it when our kickboxing school closed. At the time, it felt, to me, like the world was ending. There was no other school that would be comparable to the curriculum or excellence of our school. What would we do?
A few of the women from the school got together to devise a plan of action. We didn’t know what we would do, but we knew we wanted to stick together as training partners. All of us had trained in martial arts for about a decade. We wondered: could we lead our own training? And if so, where would we do it? The idea of a park came up, but I hate working out outside, and we would have to bring any gear we wanted, which would mean we would have to drive there rather than bike or take public transportation. I advocated hard for a dedicated space–an indoor space.
But getting that set up was a ton of work. We spent a month visiting different locations, sending each other pictures, working out how much we could afford and how much room we needed and where we could all get to, transportation-wise.
One of our favorite spaces we looked at was advertised as “convenient hobby space.” When we wrote to the owner, he wrote back: “We have an old foundry with lots of nooks and crannies.” When we visited (after looking up what a foundry was), it turned out to be a GIANT abandoned factory-type building, about a square block in size, on an unpopulated side street. We went in through an enormous roll-up door, through a street-sized hallway between buildings, into a warehouse space that had all kinds of people sawing and drilling things, plus tons of antique furniture stacked everywhere. We went upstairs in a small industrial elevator, and into a wonderful dusty space full of weird junk, with high ceilings and a lovely giant window and a dirty wood floor littered with rusty nails.
The guy told us that if we wanted the space, he’d help us clean it out and install anything we needed, such as electrical outlets.
We loved that space, and thought we might take it. It seemed crazy badass to train in a giant abandoned foundry, if not a bit intimidating (we tried to imagine what it would be like in there at night, the endless echoing space, the possibility of a quarter mile between us and anyone else).
Before we made a decision about that space, we looked at one more. It was in a basement, the same price as the foundry, a similar size but in a small warehouse instead of a giant one, on a well-traveled street rather than an abandoned one.
This was it: our new space.
Getting it ready was exciting but stressful. The air, walls and floor were thick with dust; it made us cough just to walk around in there. We put on gloves and masks and swept, vacuumed, mopped, until it was all clean.
Training there felt odd at first. It feels really different to work out in a new area, especially one that doesn’t have the feel of a workout space yet. We figured out some tiring but safe drills to start out with, because we weren’t used to the concrete floors yet, with their giant cracks and irregular surfaces.
It only took us a few weeks to feel completely at home in our new training space. The smell of our sweat and hard work got into the air, the shapes of our feet pressed into the wrestling mats, and it became home. We bought more equipment, and had lots donated to us: weights, pads, mats, heavy bags.
Now, over two years later, our space feels like a full-service gym. We have enough equipment down there that one of our worries is, if we have to leave someday, where will we put all this stuff? It’s not an ad-hoc any more, not a temporary make-do kind of space. It’s our training spot, our second home, the space we do our hardest work. And the people around us, for better or for worse, aren’t just our sort-of neighbors, but our real, true neighbors. Like any type of neighbors, some of them are awesome, some are annoying, some are downright crazy, and some of them are famous!
I might have mentioned before that I sometimes don’t like conferences. I might have also mentioned that conferences about teaching are usually pretty good (mostly because I love talking to teachers).
The conference I just got back from was fucking incredible.
It was the conference of the Accelerated Learning Project, or ALP. Accelerated learning can mean a lot of things, but for the ALP, it means (usually) reducing the time it takes for community college students to get into college level courses.
More than half of community college students are placed into English and math courses that are below college level. We call these students “unprepared,” shake our heads at why students have such low skills, chastise the high schools that give students such bad preparation. But the truth is, most of the students placed into these courses are not incapable of doing college-level work.
In fact, the methods we use to determine who is ready for college courses are horribly flawed. Most colleges use multiple choice tests.Studies have shownthat these tests are not valid predictors of student ability. One of the most common tests, Compass,was just discontinued this month because its creator, ACT, determined that the test didn’t predict how students would do in college.
My colleagues and I have taken the placement test given at our college. When the counselors asked us which questions students should get right in order to be prepared for college English, we couldn’t tell them. The questions seemed to have no connection to anything we actually teach. One section in particular baffled me. The directions said, “For the following questions, we will ask you to rewrite sentences in your head.”
So I knew the placement system was bad. In particular, I knew it was bad for the following reasons:
It prolongs the time the student will spend in college.
It costs the students more money.
It discourages students, many of whom drop out rather than face multiple levels needed just to join an actual college course.
It sends a message of inadequacy and unwelcome to students.
It underestimates the abilities of many or possibly most students.
It sets low expectations.
It disproportionately places minority, poor, and female students into below-college-level courses.
Another problem with having multiple levels of below-college-level courses is what is called the pipeline effect. As the course sequence to get to college-level classes becomes longer and longer, more and more students leak out of the pipe and never make it through. Every added level that a student needs to take exponentially reduces their chance of reaching a college level course. For example, consider 100 students placed two levels below college-level English. Imagine that 80% of students pass their course and advance to the next course each semester.
100 students enroll in 2 levels below Freshman Comp. 80 students enroll in 1-level below Freshman Comp. 64 students enroll in Freshman Comp.
Only 64% of students get a chance to take the college courses that they had in mind when they enrolled for college. And these are the best possible circumstances. Eighty percent success is much higher than average in these courses (typical success might be more like 40-60%). Also, not every student who passes the course will enroll in the subsequent course. So the actual numbers of students who never make it through the system are much worse. Of course, some do repeat the course and eventually move forward, but many do not, discouraged by the seemingly endless road ahead of them. Many schools have more than two levels below college-level; four or five levels is not uncommon.
These numbers are particularly disturbing when you consider that many or most of these students were placed incorrectly by their placement tests. And under-placed students are at great risk of dropping out because of boredom and frustration.
I already knew all this before the conference. That’s why I went: to learn how we can change our system to not place students in lower-than-necessary courses. But the conference made me realize how dire this problem is, and how many students might be wasting their time and money, getting discouraged, and/or dropping out of school because they have been incorrectly placed by a standardized test.
When more students are allowed into college-level English right away, success rates for college English go up, not down. The following graph shows how many students pass freshman English (the first college-level course) at Butte College. Butte changed from one standardized placement test to another a few years ago. When they gave the new test, they found it placed about twice as many students into college-level English as the previous test had. The college decided to let these placements stand, to see what happened. You might expect that a smaller percent of students would be able to pass college English, since more “unprepared” students were allowed in. But in fact, the opposite happened.
When students were placed higher, many more students were able to pass college English within two years of taking their first English class. This means that most of the so-called unprepared students were actually able to pass college English and did not need the extra, preparation classes. (The chart breaks the students down by race because the lower placement of non-white students is a particular area of concern).
For students who do need extra help, colleges can offer a tutoring or support class that takes place the same semester as college English, rather than before it. That way, students get support for their schoolwork, but aren’t prevented from taking college classes.
The best thing about going to a conference about a topic like this is I got to meet lots of amazing teachers who really care about students, about treating them with respect as adults, about not making unfair judgments about them, about making sure they have access to education and that they are truly learning when they are in our classes. It’s amazing to see how many people believe in this model of education, and even more amazing to see the organizers of the conference, who are willing to travel the country fighting for equal educational opportunity for all students.
My literary and professional life-partner, Michelle Gonzales, and I are getting ready for a conference in LA later this week.
Here is what we might wear when we give our presentation:
Or I don’t know; I probably have some halfway professional clothes in the bottom of my drawer somewhere.
I don’t like going to conferences. To begin with, I don’t like going anywhere. I really, really like where I am on a regular basis, and I am a little stubborn about not wanting to go other places. Also, I have conference trauma, based on my experiences in graduate school. Granted, I only went to a few conferences, but they were generally like the one I went to on Surrealism: five panels going on simultaneously, one big name at each time slot so everyone attends that panel, all other panels attended by a sparse group of people who a) have some very vague interest in your topic, b) know you personally and feel sorry for you, or c) have a personal vendetta against the famous person on the well-attended panel.
The panels themselves consisted of four or five presenters reading pre-written papers that the audience had to listen to without any visual aid or reference. The papers were always about texts that almost no one had read–that’s the nature of English studies–so the audience nodded along and listened for points they could remember long enough to agree or disagree. During the discussion portion of the panel, the audience members would ask questions about their own area of study and how it related to the topic of the presentation, like “Wouldn’t Freud’s idea of the ‘death drive’ undermine the thesis of your paper?”
Basically what I’m trying to say is that I never learned anything at a conference. Not while I was in graduate school, anyway.
During my final year of grad school, during my annual meeting with the department chair, she sternly told me that my CV needed more conference papers, and that I should aim to speak at two or three conferences that year. “Okay, I’ll do that,” I nodded, straight-up lying to her face. I had my own plans for that year, and one of them was no conferences.
Since then, I’ve been to a few great conferences. The Future of Minority Studies group put on brilliant, collaborative conferences. They would have everyone read the same several books in preparation, and keep the conference size small so everyone could be at every discussion and presentation, rather than simultaneous panels. I learned a ton at those conferences, because they were structured as a change for real collaborative learning, rather than a chance for people to show off and build their resumes.
The conference we’re attending this week will be a big conference with multiple simultaneous panels. Our presentation is up against a big name; in fact, we’re up against the group that organized the conference. So I’m not getting my hopes up for a big audience. I’d just like for there to be more audience members than presenters.
But the good thing is that we’re presenting on a great topic: acceleration for basic skills students. Over 50% of community college students place into courses below college level (often because the placement test is poorly designed). Acceleration is the philosophy and practice of getting these students into college level courses as quickly as possible, rather than making them take multiple semesters of remedial classes. It’s a really important topic (my friend Sara just recommendedthis great bookto me if you want to know more about it).
The other good news is that this conference is about teaching, and teaching conferences are pretty much always good. No one is at a teaching conference just to show off during their own presentation and scoff at other people’s presentation. Everyone is there to get good, practical ideas that they can bring back to their own colleges.
Michelle and I taught an accelerated course at our college, so we’ll be presenting on our hard work and the work of our colleagues in designing and implementing this course. It’s a great topic, and I think we created a pretty sweet presentation about it (get this…it has 38 slides) (some with graphs and charts and shit).
So onward, step on the gas, take us to the conference. I just really hope I learn something. I am pretty sure I will…and I bet I will learn it fast.
On Saturday, I went to my friend Adam’s art opening. His paintings were amazing, of course. And it’s always fun to go to see them hanging in a gallery, looking really official and arty, while hipster art students and awkward, nerdy art bloggers mill around, try to get a word or a photo with the artist, gush over his work.
I have a lot of writer friends, but just this one artist friend (I have other artist friends who are Adam’s friends that I met through him, and an artist mom). I love doing work at his art studio, watching him paint, feeling like a real artsy-artist surrounded by canvases and brushes and easels and globs of oil paint.
Sometimes we argue about what is harder, being a writer or a painter. Obviously writing is harder, more grueling and less rewarding due to the following reasons that I have kindly listed below.
A painting never requires you to to go research the history of, say, nineteenth century Russian prisons.
Painters don’t have to invent imaginary yet realistic people in their minds.
A painting takes about a week to paint. Maybe a small, simple painting takes a day. A complex painting might take month. Writing a novel takes years, unless you’re Stephen King, in which case, a) you write a book in six months, then take a break for six weeks during which time you write a fucking novella, b) fuck you anyway and c) thanks for writing Carrie and that awesome book about writing.
When Adam is done with a painting, he takes a photograph and posts it on Instagram. Four hundred people click “like” in fifteen minutes.
It doesn’t take three weeks to look at a painting. Your friends don’t have to carry it around with them to enjoy it.
You can paint and listen to NPR at the same time.
No attractive hipsters ever come to your writing opening.
Here are a few reasons painting is harder, though:
You can’t do it in a coffee shop.
You have to buy paint and stuff.
If you paint a portrait, the person’s two eyes have to look the same.
If there are bricks, you have to paint all the bricks.
I am pretty sure that is all the reasons. Clearly, writing is harder. That’s okay. Art isn’t a contest of who does the most work. If it was a contest, though, writing would win. Also I would like to point out that I am not jealous of all those Instagram likes, not at all.
Today I had lunch and a long walk with my best friend from graduate school, after twelve years of not being in touch.
I met Sara when I visited Michigan for the first time. The University of Michigan English department offered an expenses-paid welcome week for students who had been accepted into the PhD program. It was a long way to travel during the middle of the semester (I was a senior at Berkeley), but my roommates and I were in a giant, blowout fight and I was looking for any reason to get out of the apartment. So I went. It was good I did, because that trip convinced me to go to Michigan.
One thing that happened on the trip was I met Sara, and we hit it off instantly. We were were in very different areas of study (she was in early modern, i.e. Renaissance, while I was in twentieth century and literary theory), but we had so much in common. Both of us were nerds who hung out with partiers, the kind of students who might go out drinking all night with their friends on Friday but skip the next night, because we had to finish all our reading for Monday. We were both sweet, good-girl types who also had some pretty serious authority issues.
We used to get together and study after our classes. I remember she was such a fast reader, while I read slowly; it used to make me crazy jealous. We would drink pots of coffee and she would smoke cigarettes and we would complain about the system. The system of graduate school. It was a hierarchy, a patriarchal hierarchy, and they couldn’t even see it, man. How could they be so oblivious to the irony, all this critique of convention and arbitrary systems of value, and yet, look around. Didn’t they notice that if you wanted to write about James Joyce, you had to hang out with that one young, hip professor who was the Joycean, and that you also had to be young, hip, male? Didn’t they hear how dismissive they sounded when they talked about undergraduates? How could these Marxists not notice the way they told you not to write about what interested you, but what was the most marketable? Wasn’t their hypocrisy so, so, so obvious?
We both ended up dropping out in different ways. She left with her Master’s and got a teaching degree, ending up as a high-school principal. I finished my PhD but then got into community college teaching (which the layperson might not realize is not an acceptable job for someone with a PhD from a research university). Once she left my department, our schedules became really different, and it was hard to get together as much, and then we both moved away. We haven’t really been in touch until a few months ago.
Today we met up in San Francisco, where she was visiting for her job. We had tea and lunch, took a long walk down Market Street to the water, talked about our lives and our jobs and education. She told me how she is spearheading a new, more creative curriculum for her school, and I told her about the conference I’ll be presenting at next week on how my department accelerated our low-placing students into a higher-level class. She told me about a book that supports my presentation.
I always love talking to educators. That’s one reason I became a teacher (and why I call myself a teacher or instructor rather than a professor): because I love teachers, and I wanted to really like the people I worked with. And I do. I currently teach in a department that is more like a family than a workplace, with colleagues who are pretty much geniuses at instructing and inspiring budding writers. They never act like we are above our students, a few notches higher in a hierarchal system. All they care about is giving those students the best possible learning experience, so they can become our doctors and accountants and firefighters and car mechanics some day.
I think Sara and I both know we were spoiled to get a free education, funded by fellowships and teaching positions, and to have access to the brilliant scholars who were our professors. But we also both knew, when we left, that there was no point sticking around research universities being annoyed and talking shit. Still, we did do a little shit-talking today, just a little, about how glad we are to be out of a profession that, for us, just didn’t get it, and into a profession that really, really does.
So, my back went out like I knew it would. I’ve lived with this back for my whole life, and with this injured back for about eight years, and I know it very well. I did everything I could to help it: I got a massage, I did tai chi and chi kung, I went easier on my training. But today, in the middle of chi kung actually, something seized up in my back and now the whole right side is frozen and angry.
I’m not surprised any more. This happens at the end of every single semester. I used to gets colds when my classes ended; now the thing seems to be back pain. I know why, too. For at least three weeks at the end of every semester, I go into work early, grade papers before class, stay at work as late as I possibly can, skip tai chi or cardio training to grade a few extra essays, spend every non-training night at the coffee shop grading. By the end of that, my back feels like someone has replaced it with sheet metal.
Then, when the semester is actually over, I say to myself: I have missed so much writing! I have missed so much training! I need to do all of it right now!!! So then I spend ALL day sitting, writing at the coffee shop for six hours, heading to my training space early to fit in a few extra sets of burpees, adding in all those extra workouts I had been skipping.
I know what the answer is supposed to be: more recovery. I used to recover at the end of semester when I was a student. I didn’t really have a choice; I was too exhausted to get out of bed. Every time I finished a chapter of my dissertation, I knew I would spend a week brain-dead, sleeping ten hours a day, so unable to move forward to the next chapter that there was no point dragging myself to the library to pretend I was working.
With my regular life a little more balanced, I don’t think I need to spend the week after every semester sleeping and watching TV. I’m not sure that recovery like that would help now. Probably the thing to do is to remember to ease my way into summer, not to jump in so crazy. But even when I think that’s what I’m doing, the back problems happen.
I think a lot about recovery. I suppose it’s not so different from what people are calling “self-care.” That term sort of annoys me (not that I think it’s a bad term, just that something about it makes me tense), and now I realize why: I have a very antagonistic relationship to recovery. I don’t think I’m the only one; that’s why all those stress-case bloggers are blogging about how to do self care, like it’s a chore. It is a chore! Unless I am so exhausted, sick or injured that I cannot do anything but sleep, recovery never feels tranquil or healing to me. It feels forced, uncomfortable, like stretching when you’re stiff. GET UP AND TAKE A BREAK, I shout at myself. GET A FUCKING MASSAGE OR SOMETHING.
Once I get to this state, where I am broken and discouraged and pathologically tense, I tell myself, you suck at relaxing and this is a horrible weakness in your life! I would also like to point out that I’m not some mega-productive workaholic, as I am making myself sound. Part of this cycle is that I am less focused when I work because I am so stressed and tired. So I procrastinate a lot, look at stupid crap on the internet. Then I yell at myself: you suck at working! You suck at focusing!
So today I was telling myself all this, and I was thinking, this will never get better, right? It happens every semester! Even when I sort of half-assedly try to prevent it! There is my destiny/curse and I cannot escape! My life is a giant mess!!!
Then I remembered all the things I used to feel this way about, this constant, puzzled, helpless turmoil. Things like fighting with friends, finding a fulfilling career, eating healthy but not obsessing about eating healthy, taking a week off kickboxing without fearing I would forget everything I had ever learned. All kinds of things. There are dozens of problems in my life that took me years to work through, that once dominated my life, things that seem puzzlingly unproblematic now. I wasn’t stupid or a failure for not being able to sort those things out instantly, or even over a few years. Some of them took a decade to work out. But now they’re not problems anymore. They’re good parts of my life, things that work, the reasons my life is better every year as I figure more things out. Sometimes younger people complain to me about these parts of their lives, and if they ask my advice, I give it to them, and I tell them that this is part of the stage of life they are in and that it will get sorted out in a few years. And then I see that my response gives them hope, and I feel all old and wise and shit.
So this advice is from my future, even older self: some day you will figure this out. It’s part of this stage of life. And some day, you will be past it.
Me and my team of tiny women assassins are all injured. It’s very sad. One of my main training partners has a torn tendon in her foot; the other one has an injured back. I have a messed-up knee. Over the last few months, our training has been deterred by laryngitis, a broken finger, a shoulder injury, migraines and shingles. And of course the things we all get all the time, which are colds and back injuries. My back is one wrong move away from being injured right now, all stiff and angry from too much sitting. Basically, we’re a mess.
I know I am very lucky to have the health and ability to train regularly in a physically demanding sport. And I’m lucky my knee injury (torn meniscus) wasn’t too bad, and that I’ve been able to do maybe 60% of my regular training as it recovers. I can box, I can do very light kicking, I can do burpees and lift weights if I’m careful. I can do very whiny jiujitsu (a lot of, no, not that way, my knee!).
Still, it is so frustrating to watch your classmates spar and know that you won’t be able to do that any time soon, any time that you can imagine. I watch the impact they’re absorbing as they kickbox and wrestle, the unpredictable stumbling of their legs as their kicks are caught and thrown the the ground, the quick pivoting on bent knees, and I think: I will never be able to do that again. Which isn’t true. But not for a while. My knee still yells at me if I squat too low or walk up the stairs too confidently. A few months until sparring, probably, at least. It seems like forever.
Having been through this a few times now, I’ve learned that this is part of the training. Sitting on the side, trying to learn something by watching, not doing. Feeling like your body has lost all it’s amazing magic powers. You know it will pass, just not soon, not “Oh, I’ll be back next week.” You have to learn patience and remember that challenging times always end, one way or another.
Last week I turned 40. I’ve been getting ready for a while. Mostly I’ve been studying up on this clip by Louis CK so I’d know what to expect.
I felt like I was in pretty good company with the 40 thing. I’m still friends with a lot of people from high school and college, so they’re all turning 40, too. Also the college I work for turned 40 this year. Also Saturday Night Live and the fall of Saigon. So that’s a lot of us entering our fifth decade.
The very awesome thing about never doing anything athletic until you’re twenty-eight years old is that you get to enter your forties in waaaayyyy better shape than you entered your thirties. I am stronger, fitter, healthier, happier, and I’m pretty sure better-looking than I was when I was thirty. I basically expect I’ll be even more of all those things when I turn fifty.
There are a few things I have gotten worse at throughout my thirties, though. They are:
1. Taking risks. When I was in my twenties, I took risks all the time. I think that’s all I ever did. I moved across the country to go to graduate school. I abandoned my scholarly career to work for a community college. I took weird pills people gave me and walked drunk down railroad tracks. It was easy to take risks in my twenties, because when you’re new at adulthood, everything is a risk. No matter what you do, it won’t be something you’ve done before (unless you’re going to live with your parents and work at a gift store for the rest of your life). You’re completely panicked and terrified all the time no matter what.
In my thirties, I had to really force myself to do risky things, and when I did, I wasn’t acclimated to the terror of it anymore. Like when I did a kickboxing tournament, I broke out in hives that lasted for months afterwards. My conditioning for terror is totally shot. I could probably work on getting it back, but I just can’t tough it through all those hives.
2. Drinking. I used to be really good at this. Now I suck at it. Totally lost my motivation.
3. Wanting to find a life partner. That seemed really appealing in my twenties. Somebody to always be there for you, now matter how crazy you were being. In my thirties, I got to understand the other side a little better: someone you always had to be there for, no matter how crazy they were being. (And someone who bore the bitterness of putting up with all your craziness). I realized I’m really awesome at taking care of myself.
4. Moving. In my twenties, I moved at least once every two years. I always hated it, but it had to be done. I was moving across the country, or I was moving in with a new roommate, or I was moving in with my boyfriend or moving out with my boyfriend. I hated the moving, but it did make me get rid of a bunch of crap every two years. It also helped me divide time in my head. I would remember what year an event occurred based on what apartment I was living in. I lived in the same apartment for all of my thirties, and I have no idea when anything happened.
That’s it. There are probably more. I could make some kind of resolution to get better at these things, to take more risks and want a life partner and move and drink more. Or not. Maybe I’ll start with the drinking.
On the other hand, I am much better at these things compared to a decade ago: writing, uppercuts, teaching, poetry, drawing, patience, balance, roundhouse kicks, alliance, pull-ups, taciturnity (not good but better), burpees, flexibility. So I think it’s a decent trade-off.