Still grading final exams. Universal suffrage seems more and more like a really bad idea.
A student in my "Western Civilization since 1500" class thinks that Germany failed to defeat the Soviet Union in World War II because Hitler insisted on mounting the troops on elephants for the invasion.
Really.
I suppose she sat there, probably hung over, terrified of failing, knowing nothing, and somehow, in some mysterious way, a little glimmer, an inkling, a scrap of a fact, a ghost of a memory drifted down and settled in. Something about a commander whose name started with an 'H' and who suffered a terrible military defeat.
Hannibal. Hitler. Ancient Rome. The Soviet Union. All in the past. A bunch of dead guys. History.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Grading
I'm grading final exams and therefore, inevitably, I am depressed and out of sorts.
And then I hit this line in a student's paper: "If these secularizing trends continued, martyrs would be a dying breed."
I love my job.
And then I hit this line in a student's paper: "If these secularizing trends continued, martyrs would be a dying breed."
I love my job.
Monday, May 2, 2011
The Problem with Bicycling
I've been bicycling to work, a fact of which I am ridiculously proud, considering it's only a 2-mile ride between home and the university. On a bike path. Along a lake. In the flatlands of south Louisiana. Still, temperatures are already in the upper 80s down here, so I do sweat. And thus have the right to feel proud.
I thought that the sweating would be the huge problem with biking to work, but there's still enough of a morning coolness and a light breeze that it's ok. So far, at least, I don't walk around all day smelling like a pile of dirty gym clothes.
But I do walk around with Really Bad Hair. This, I had not anticipated. If I wear the helmet, I look something like a tonsured Gene Wilder. If I decide to risk brain injury for the sake of my vanity and forego the helmet, I show up looking like the mad scientist in the Back to the Future movies. Today it was so bad that I actually stuck my head under the faucet in the ladies' room before I went to class. It didn't help things much. Instead of looking like a crazy old lady, I looked like a wet and crazy old lady. Ah well. It all keeps my students amused or, at least, bemused. The Batty Bicycling Prof. You know, the one with the hair.
I thought that the sweating would be the huge problem with biking to work, but there's still enough of a morning coolness and a light breeze that it's ok. So far, at least, I don't walk around all day smelling like a pile of dirty gym clothes.
But I do walk around with Really Bad Hair. This, I had not anticipated. If I wear the helmet, I look something like a tonsured Gene Wilder. If I decide to risk brain injury for the sake of my vanity and forego the helmet, I show up looking like the mad scientist in the Back to the Future movies. Today it was so bad that I actually stuck my head under the faucet in the ladies' room before I went to class. It didn't help things much. Instead of looking like a crazy old lady, I looked like a wet and crazy old lady. Ah well. It all keeps my students amused or, at least, bemused. The Batty Bicycling Prof. You know, the one with the hair.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Beatrice's Hat
Grace comes showering down in the strangest of ways, at the weirdest of times, in the most unexpected places. This week I've felt so world-weary and woebegone, beaten down and beaten up, tired out and stretched thin. And then along comes Beatrice's hat, and all is made new. How can I not love a world that produces such marvels, how can I not revel in a life that allows such delight? A curtsey to you, Princess Beatrice. You go, girl.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Fertility + Dementia
Oh for pete's sake. I've got my period. A full-blown, bright red, flowing, I am fertile too bad you didn't inseminate me a few weeks ago period.
My mom had a friend, acquaintance really, who got pregnant at age 52--back in the Dark Ages, before artificial insemination and test-tube babies and surrogacy and the rest of our Brave New World. Mom always talks about this pregnancy in a tone of horror. I think it'd be kinda cool, really. Shoot, I like babies and little kids and now I'd actually have some sense of what I was doing. And by the time said baby became a horrid teenager, like the one clumping through the house right now, well, I wouldn't really notice much, would I? I'd just shake my head, the one with no hair left, and wave my arms, the ones with the extendable skin, and hobble back to the sofa to watch another episode of Doctor Who.
My mom had a friend, acquaintance really, who got pregnant at age 52--back in the Dark Ages, before artificial insemination and test-tube babies and surrogacy and the rest of our Brave New World. Mom always talks about this pregnancy in a tone of horror. I think it'd be kinda cool, really. Shoot, I like babies and little kids and now I'd actually have some sense of what I was doing. And by the time said baby became a horrid teenager, like the one clumping through the house right now, well, I wouldn't really notice much, would I? I'd just shake my head, the one with no hair left, and wave my arms, the ones with the extendable skin, and hobble back to the sofa to watch another episode of Doctor Who.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Once upon a time
So, are you watching on Friday?
Oh, come on. 'Fess up. I won't tell. I'll think you're a lunatic, but I won't tell.
If you haven't a clue as to what I'm talking about, well, kudos, my friend. But, umm, you are sort of uninformed, tho', aren't you? As the rest of the sentient universe knows, Wills and Kate are finally tying the knot on Friday and the whole world will be watching.
My students were rather surprised and, in fact, somewhat dismayed to discover I am not planning to get up at 3 am to watch the live coverage of the wedding. "But you're a British historian," they protested. "This is history! Being made!" Which would be sort of cute and adorable if I hadn't just spent a semester trying to teach them a slightly more nuanced definition of history and the making thereof.
It's not like I dislike the Royal Family. I don't. When I'm in the checkout line, I'll always pull down the magazine with a royal on the cover. Beats Brangelina and Britney any day. And in fact, I have something of an exotic pedigree as a royal watcher. I don't imagine there are many other Americans who can boast hosting a Queen's Jubilee Garden Party.
It was all Hugh's fault, of course. While we were living in Manchester, the Queen celebrated her Golden Jubilee. Hugh, then about six, attended the local primary school where they held a picnic on the Friday afternoon in the Queen's honor. Hugh came home simply on fire about the whole concept of the Jubilee and proceeded to draw up and distribute invitations to a Jubilee Garden Party in our back yard ("back garden," in Brit speak) to the entire neighborhood. Without telling us. So suddenly on Saturday afternoon, we found ourselves with a party on our hands. I think, had we not been "The Americans," the party would not have happened. But, confronted with this (seemingly legit) invitation from The Americans celebrating Our Queen, the neighbors were too embarrassed not to come--and come they did. And stay they did. We ransacked the fridge and cupboards and concocted weird party food on the spot and once we had drained our actually rather abundant liquor supply, the neighbors dashed back to their houses and returned with six-packs of beer. Hugh's Garden Party turned into one of the highlights of our three-year sojourn, an alcohol-sodden, pretzel-and-cake-filled, hours and hours-long delight in the rare Manchester sunshine, complete with beery toasts to a portrait of Her Maj.
So, no, I'm not opposed to the Royal Family. I'm not opposed to Wills or Kate. I'll even make sure I buy a souvenir wedding mug this summer, to match the Charles and Diana cup in which I keep my pens.
And yes, way back when Diana tumbled into marriage with the yet-debonair Charles, I did watch the ceremony live--from a tiny living room of a rented house in what was then West Germany, crowded on the carpet with the 25 other students with whom I was spending the summer traveling in Europe.
And then, a week later, in a London still bedecked with wedding bunting, I stood in line in the pouring rain (not your typical London mist, mind you, but torrential drenching rain, with tremendous cracks of thunder and spectacular blasts of lightning) for several hours and then tramped through St. James Palace, soaking wet and muddy, to view the Wedding Gifts. Room after room filled with not only the various precious items sent by various global dignitaries of behalf of various unsuspecting publics--I believe the American People gave Charles and Diana an American Primitive painting--but also, and so much more interesting, the ordinary gifts sent by ordinary people to a couple they seemed to believe would be happily ordinary. Yes, the toaster from Paul and Sheila Thomas of Somerset, the tea cozy from Thomas and Margaret Ashton of Kent, the plastic picnicware from George and Vera Barnes of Birmingham. As if Charles and Diana, like Paul and Sheila and Thomas and Margaret and George and Vera before them, were really embarking on an ordinary, toast-making, tea-drinking, picnic-laden married life.
Such innocence. Rather like The Dress. That amazing puffball dress. The Fairy Princess Dress. Only a 19-year-old blonde virgin could pull off that dress.
Kate, the fashion commentators assured me as I was flipping thru the channels several nights ago, Kate will not wear such a dress. Hers will be more sophisticated and slender, more befitting her willowy frame and the worldly wisdom of her 28 years. And Kate has not been subjected to a physical exam to confirm her virginity, with the results trumpeted across the globe. We have moved on. Good for us. Good for Kate.
Still. Hardly worth getting up at 3 am for, is it?
Oh, come on. 'Fess up. I won't tell. I'll think you're a lunatic, but I won't tell.
If you haven't a clue as to what I'm talking about, well, kudos, my friend. But, umm, you are sort of uninformed, tho', aren't you? As the rest of the sentient universe knows, Wills and Kate are finally tying the knot on Friday and the whole world will be watching.
My students were rather surprised and, in fact, somewhat dismayed to discover I am not planning to get up at 3 am to watch the live coverage of the wedding. "But you're a British historian," they protested. "This is history! Being made!" Which would be sort of cute and adorable if I hadn't just spent a semester trying to teach them a slightly more nuanced definition of history and the making thereof.
It's not like I dislike the Royal Family. I don't. When I'm in the checkout line, I'll always pull down the magazine with a royal on the cover. Beats Brangelina and Britney any day. And in fact, I have something of an exotic pedigree as a royal watcher. I don't imagine there are many other Americans who can boast hosting a Queen's Jubilee Garden Party.
It was all Hugh's fault, of course. While we were living in Manchester, the Queen celebrated her Golden Jubilee. Hugh, then about six, attended the local primary school where they held a picnic on the Friday afternoon in the Queen's honor. Hugh came home simply on fire about the whole concept of the Jubilee and proceeded to draw up and distribute invitations to a Jubilee Garden Party in our back yard ("back garden," in Brit speak) to the entire neighborhood. Without telling us. So suddenly on Saturday afternoon, we found ourselves with a party on our hands. I think, had we not been "The Americans," the party would not have happened. But, confronted with this (seemingly legit) invitation from The Americans celebrating Our Queen, the neighbors were too embarrassed not to come--and come they did. And stay they did. We ransacked the fridge and cupboards and concocted weird party food on the spot and once we had drained our actually rather abundant liquor supply, the neighbors dashed back to their houses and returned with six-packs of beer. Hugh's Garden Party turned into one of the highlights of our three-year sojourn, an alcohol-sodden, pretzel-and-cake-filled, hours and hours-long delight in the rare Manchester sunshine, complete with beery toasts to a portrait of Her Maj.
So, no, I'm not opposed to the Royal Family. I'm not opposed to Wills or Kate. I'll even make sure I buy a souvenir wedding mug this summer, to match the Charles and Diana cup in which I keep my pens.
And yes, way back when Diana tumbled into marriage with the yet-debonair Charles, I did watch the ceremony live--from a tiny living room of a rented house in what was then West Germany, crowded on the carpet with the 25 other students with whom I was spending the summer traveling in Europe.
And then, a week later, in a London still bedecked with wedding bunting, I stood in line in the pouring rain (not your typical London mist, mind you, but torrential drenching rain, with tremendous cracks of thunder and spectacular blasts of lightning) for several hours and then tramped through St. James Palace, soaking wet and muddy, to view the Wedding Gifts. Room after room filled with not only the various precious items sent by various global dignitaries of behalf of various unsuspecting publics--I believe the American People gave Charles and Diana an American Primitive painting--but also, and so much more interesting, the ordinary gifts sent by ordinary people to a couple they seemed to believe would be happily ordinary. Yes, the toaster from Paul and Sheila Thomas of Somerset, the tea cozy from Thomas and Margaret Ashton of Kent, the plastic picnicware from George and Vera Barnes of Birmingham. As if Charles and Diana, like Paul and Sheila and Thomas and Margaret and George and Vera before them, were really embarking on an ordinary, toast-making, tea-drinking, picnic-laden married life.
Such innocence. Rather like The Dress. That amazing puffball dress. The Fairy Princess Dress. Only a 19-year-old blonde virgin could pull off that dress.
Kate, the fashion commentators assured me as I was flipping thru the channels several nights ago, Kate will not wear such a dress. Hers will be more sophisticated and slender, more befitting her willowy frame and the worldly wisdom of her 28 years. And Kate has not been subjected to a physical exam to confirm her virginity, with the results trumpeted across the globe. We have moved on. Good for us. Good for Kate.
Still. Hardly worth getting up at 3 am for, is it?
Saturday, April 23, 2011
At the Beach
Am at the beach. Blogging at the beach. Is that cool? Or is that pitiful? I'm ambivalent.
The Beach, in this case, in all cases concerning me and my family, is Gulf Shores, Alabama. One doesn't have real beaches in Louisiana--just bayous and marshes, teeming with leeches and alligators and such like. Then comes Mississippi, but its beaches pre-Katrina were rocky and dirty, and post-Katrina, well, let's say they remain a work in progress. One could bypass Alabama and continue down the interstate to Pensacola, but as soon as the car crosses the state line into Florida the prices rise, as does the socio-economic status and the physical fitness of the beach-goers, and the quality of the goods in the shops and restaurants.
Since we don't like to go out when we're at the beach, we prefer Gulf Shores. Decent prices. White sand. The appropriately uber-tacky souvenirs. And, the absolute essential of any beach break, lots of obese Americans in all their glory--the guy with the gigantic beer belly curling over his belt like a generous scoop of ice cream on a cone, his buddy with the tattooed eagle proclaiming "Liberty or Death," his amply proportioned girlfriend who sports a string bikini all the same.
My, but we are an ugly people.
Yet the sun is shining and the breeze is fresh and the laughter, like the waves, rolls up and peaks and diminishes and crescendoes again; the beer belly guy leans over and gives his girl's broad shoulder a gentle kiss; the tattooed friend walks over and offers us a beer and a chicken wing.
Easter weekend. All things made new.
The Beach, in this case, in all cases concerning me and my family, is Gulf Shores, Alabama. One doesn't have real beaches in Louisiana--just bayous and marshes, teeming with leeches and alligators and such like. Then comes Mississippi, but its beaches pre-Katrina were rocky and dirty, and post-Katrina, well, let's say they remain a work in progress. One could bypass Alabama and continue down the interstate to Pensacola, but as soon as the car crosses the state line into Florida the prices rise, as does the socio-economic status and the physical fitness of the beach-goers, and the quality of the goods in the shops and restaurants.
Since we don't like to go out when we're at the beach, we prefer Gulf Shores. Decent prices. White sand. The appropriately uber-tacky souvenirs. And, the absolute essential of any beach break, lots of obese Americans in all their glory--the guy with the gigantic beer belly curling over his belt like a generous scoop of ice cream on a cone, his buddy with the tattooed eagle proclaiming "Liberty or Death," his amply proportioned girlfriend who sports a string bikini all the same.
My, but we are an ugly people.
Yet the sun is shining and the breeze is fresh and the laughter, like the waves, rolls up and peaks and diminishes and crescendoes again; the beer belly guy leans over and gives his girl's broad shoulder a gentle kiss; the tattooed friend walks over and offers us a beer and a chicken wing.
Easter weekend. All things made new.
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