A man is pregnant. That is an unbelievable sentence to write and as I read the news by-line I was immediately filled with doubt that this was a hoax. But after some research I am as sure as I can be without seeing him that this is true. The story is here http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/us_and_americas/article3628860.ece and he is a transgendered man, born a woman and kept his reproductive organs when having sex reassignment surgery. How much does this rock your world?

Of course, because he was born a woman and kept his reproductive organs it isn't biologically astounding, but culturally, ethically, philosophically--it's rocking my world. I've been reading a lot of theory to gear up for Judith Butler's Gender Trouble and the idea of gender as a social construct is one I've been grappling with for awhile. But to see a man, a former woman who has gone through surgery and does self-recognize as a man, pregnant is mind boggling.

What does it mean to be man or woman? If a "man" can have a baby, what does it mean for the definition of gender? Can you be a man and be pregnant? Or does his choice to conceive immediately invalidate his identifying as a man and make him a woman?

I've always been pro-choice in almost all life decisions, and I don't think he shouldn't be able to make this decision. Nor have I been hesitant to allow transgendered women their full identity as female, but as I've done more and more work in feminists studies I've also began to place a lot of value and identity in my reproductive system. Not in my identity as a mother, but in my body--how it is biologically different from a man's. I'm forced to confront the question at this point--is it the body that makes a person a gender or sex, or is it society? Is my femininity threatened by this?

My gut instinct to that last question is of course not, but I am disturbed by the idea of science working to make a man pregnant. This man obviously carried the necessary reproductive organs, but in my research I found discussion of theories on how to make men pregnant. That bothers me a lot. On the one hand, it would be great not to have to carry a baby if I didn't want to; on the other hand, much of patriarchy has revolved around womb-envy, and the scientific ability to impregnate a man would be the culminating victory in this war on women. That isn't an "I hate men" statement, but a belief I carry about society's treatment of women.

This is going to require further thought and much more introspection.

I write this from a Drury Inn in Illinois, across the river from St. Louis. Not the hotel I am staying at for the weekend, but rather from the place a nice security guard dropped me when I was stranded at an airport in the middle of cornfields. It's been a hell of a night.

Apparently my airline doesn't fly into the big airport, no it flies into a little one on the Illinois side that doesn't actually connect to anything. Hence, when I reserved the car at the big airport it was, surprisingly, not waiting for me magically at the airport I flew into. So there I was, two hours late thanks to a delay, having just flown through a thunderstorm which was a really unfun ride, and stranded with no means to get to the rental car except an overpriced taxi that was going to take thirty minutes to get to me before the forty minute (at least) cab ride. Then the nice security guard offered to take me to the train. But we got there two minutes after the train left. So he took me a little further up the road, looking for a gas station and I decided, hey, I can hang out at that Drury Inn indefinitely. Thankfully, the other people flying in arrived, were able to pick up the car (which was not at the airport but where they had to take a shuttle to get to) and are now in route, as I type to rescue me. Attempting to navigate thirty miles of stormy, cold midwest at one o'clock in the morning is really not my favorite activity.

The only positive is that this particular inn is hosting a large amount of really good looking men who are playing poker in the lobby. This means that on occasion they walk by to use the restroom and I get to check them out. Somehow it doesn't all equal out, however.

And I just want everyone to know that I read a really interesting book on the plane and was really excited to talk about it. Instead I'm sharing my story of travel woes. It is worth noting, however, that another traveler was delayed two and a half hours, missed her connecting flight and is now in Chicago overnight. I don't know which of us has it worse. In the end, I feel this will be the hardest fought for conference paper ever presented. Someone, somewhere is writing a Hollywood script even as I type.

I would also like to add that the nice man who gave me a ride was a Republican. It just goes to show that you shouldn't stereotype because you never know who come to your aid. It also goes to show that while it might not be wise to accept rides from strange men, at least not everyone in this world is a degenerate. As Blanche says, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." Of course, when she says it, it is horrifically sad and ironic. Thankfully my own dependence in this case did not end up with me raped, dead, or in a mental institution. All-in-all it's been a very successful night.

I suppose it all depends on how you are measuring things.

Why is it legal for parents to consent to breast implant surgery in children under eighteen? It doesn't matter that the FDA recommends no one under eighteen have the surgery (which, 18 is still to young, things are still developing) but we don't let parents buy alcohol for their kids; we don't let parents give their kids cigarettes. But they can buy their kid a surgery which will screw up their body, or at least require corrective measures more often than not, in five to ten years. Someone please explain to how this is acceptable?

Obviously I am against breast implants in general. The technology is fantastic for patients of mastectomies but breasts that are too small, saggy, old? What are we doing to ourselves? What are we allowing to be done to our children? Is a mother's first job not the protection of her children? Perhaps not. Perhaps her first job is actually raising the daughter she always wished she could be. Beautiful, popular, perfect.

Cosmetic surgery not revolving around the implant is a different matter; I understand the need to rectify a birth defect. What qualifies as defective thought? Different sized breasts? Many people have different sized breasts, so how much of a difference? One cup size? Two? What about nipples that aren't perfectly symmetrical? Does that qualify as necessary for surgery? I honestly want to know--at what point am I doing something to fix my body, and at what point am I doing something to make others happy?

I love women who talk about breast implants as if it were a new lease on life. They are so much more happy. So much more self-confident. On the one hand I understand that feeling, often patients of dental surgery feel the same thing if they are able to smile unselfconsciously for the first time in years, but what qualifies as okay, teeth, and not okay, breasts?

I think for me it would have to depend on the severity of the situation. If you had one breast that was a DD and hung down to your waist, and another that was a B and perky, well that might be worth mending. But what if you are a B cup, or an A? Or a DD that has started to sag at thirty five or forty five? Are those things worthy of making you self conscious? Are they worthy of ruining your life and requiring surgery, possibly dangerous surgery, to allow you to be happy? Why must your breasts be perfect for you to be happy? Why must your body? Why is happiness impossible for imperfect people?

I don't think it is (obviously). But I think we are all taught to believe that way. If I had the time or the inclination I would go Marxist on you and explain why most of this drive stems from capitalism. My point here is, though, that this is not okay. It is unethical and immoral to allow a parent to agree to the mutilation of their child's body. Naturally we could argue what constitutes mutilation but rather than be sidetracked into a discussion on drugs, alcohol, tattoos, and piercings I am going to attempt to stay on point. For our purposes right now, I think breast augmentation--specifically in girls under eighteen--qualifies as mutilation.

It is bad for her. It is unhealthy. What else is all of our health/nutrition news about if not better ways to be healthy and, therefore, good? And yet we support surgery that is neither good nor necessary. Oh, let the hypocrisy rule!

I'm not judging people who have received breast implants, I'm judging the society that endorses them. I am absolutely, however, judging mothers that allow their daughters to receive breast implants. You're a bad mother. I'm not normally so outspoken about my judgments of people, especially since I try so very hard not to judge people, but in this case I honestly feel it is bad parenting. I'm having a very difficult time conceiving of it as anything else. Feel free to correct me.

But don't argue that "if a person wants to it's okay." Where kids are concerned that is a whole different ballgame than adults. And breast implants are not about tattoos and piercings. You aren't fighting the establishment or declaring your individuality. Exactly the opposite. So I guess the question is, is it more reprehensible to fight the establishment without any grander purpose, or to give in to it?

All I really want to do is go back to the ocean. Instead I'm going to talk about sexuality. Why? I don't know; because it's something to do I guess.

I just finished reading Twelfth Night for class. In all honesty I only half read it, but I did watch the whole movie (which was also for class). Shakespeare plays around with attraction and sexuality a lot in this play and it made me start asking questions. I understand it's hard to believe as I rarely ask questions.

My most pressing question is this: where does attraction reside? Is it purely physical, purely mental, or somewhere in between? When I was younger I took the road of many a young, teenage, chubby girl--that it is purely mental. That if someone just go to know me and weren't so shallow he wouldn't help but fall in love with me. When I got older I began to realize that I, for all of my "appearance doesn't matter" rhetoric, was, in fact, unable to be attracted to particular men--even if I found their personality fascinating. This is turn made me ask the question, is it possible that some men will simply never find me attractive, either because of my weight or despite it?

I think, as a starting point, I would say that attraction is a mixture of physical and mental responses. This seems supported by the way a personality can both increase attraction and destroy it. But I want to say there is some physical reaction there, some biology at work, because sometimes you see someone and are immediately aroused. Not ready to have sex aroused, but attracted. And sometimes even if there isn't what one would call "attraction" there is what we as a society call "chemistry."

However, is it possible to discover how much of our physical responses are purely biological and how much have been created by the society surrounding us? If you have learned your whole life that a particular physical body is attractive then how, when you are fifteen, twenty-five, or forty, do you know if you are reacting because your body wants to mate, or reacting because you've internalized that as "sexy?" Are you following my conundrum here?

I have, at different points in my life, had people completely uninterested in me because of my physical appearance. I have also had friends effuse about my beauty, usually women, but not always. And also, amongst my friends, I am consistently told I am "not fat" which is a patented untruth. But I believe, that they believe it. This raises the question, do you see someone differently after you know them, or do we refuse to see egregious physical failings (as defined by society) in the people we respect and love? If you find yourself attracted to someone, or even just imagining them as beautiful, are you forced to also deny that they are fat, or stupid, or any other loaded term that depicts a failing of not just the body, but the character?

I don't think it is possible to establish what is biology and what is not, quite honestly, at least not where attraction is concerned. Sexuality, gender identification, these things might be discernable, if only because when someone cannot conform to society it must be concluded there is something else keeping them from conforming than a simple state of immorality or rebellion. But attraction, attraction is not the same as sexuality or gender identity.

So what causes it? What affects it? What makes us lust after some but not others? Can you love sexually if you are only mildly attracted? Do couples sometimes find their partner unattractive? How often? Why? Did it occur over time was it always there? Some of these questions I assume I will find answers to some day, but some I may never. Of course, I keep reading books that theorize about such things and so perhaps the answers are forthcoming.

And, finally, due to our Christian culture (and one could argue the other big religions of Islam and Judaism) we have the moral/ethical belief that if you think a thing it is as bad as doing it. This has given rise to significant strife over lustful thoughts (not to mention angry, hateful, or any other type of thought). Are lustful thoughts avoidable, or do we "allow" them into our heads? How much entertaining of such a thought is too much entertaining? When is a fantasy acceptable, and when is it cheating?

Anyway, I'm going off on a tangent. Regardless here are some thoughts for you all to contemplate. I am curious as to your thoughts on the matter. Maybe next time I find myself attracted to someone I will attempt to break down the feeling. Of course, usually I'm too busy drooling to think academically, but perhaps if I'm trying to think academically I will neither drool, giggle, nor be mean. And then I might get a date.

Hey there's an idea...

My studying of writing continues and I once again find myself angry with heartburn at academia. Why am I going to fail out of grad school? Because I seem incapable of pretending to believe what they want me to believe. Obviously if I want to graduate (which I do) I need to get my stuff together (which I haven't). I hate everything.

More to the point--I have been considering No Child Left Behind and I am in need of envisioning some way to take it down. I'm talking covert ops mission here people. I may be about as sneaky as a mac truck, but for this situation I feel I could whip out my hidden ninja. NCLB is such a bad idea that it might have a place alongside such activities as the Spanish Inquisition.

We want to "fix" education we want to "fix" our students. We want to be the best. In my readings I found one sentence that I feel perfectly describes this need. It comes from Mike Rose and his discussion of the teaching of English. The focus of writing instruction was narrowed to grammar and mechanics because they were quantifiable. Rose sums it up when he says, "The narrow focus was made even more narrow by a fetish for 'scientific' tabulation" (553). I love that. "fetish for 'scientific' tabulation." Have you ever heard it described better? I think not.

Dear old Plato divided our heads from our hearts and we've been fighting with ourselves ever sense. I must be logical, I must be rational, I must be quantifiable. Never mind the fact that you are you regardless of how much you ignore yourself. Never mind that your emotions affect you regardless of how much you ignore them. Oh no, suppress them, control them! It began with Plato and was exacerbated by Freud. And now we find ourselves, a culture overridden by its fetish for science, following the scientific method even when not applicable. Forcing activities into quantifiable results that cannot be translated into numbers. Or, perhaps, everything can be translated into numbers, but until it is understood, I would argue, the translation will be flawed. Humans speak first in words, second in numbers (a mathematician might argue with me here) and for the majority (see how I qualify myself?) they must first describe their reality in words before it can be described or predicted or quantified. Composition studies is an excellent example of this. In an effort to improve the teaching of writing (isn't it always in an effort to improve) hypothesis were made and theories put in place that predicted particular outcomes. Thus it was we had quantifiable data and ways to measure it, but we never stopped to consider if it actually applied. Soon it was discovered the writing process was complex, recursive, that people learned differently than we imagined. But how do you measure or account for human thought?

To consider the student, to understand what is driving the student (and in turn to teach more effectively) is emotional, soft, bad science. We need an applicable theory that does not allow for malleability. It must work for everyone in every case and be taught to new teachers in under four years. It never occurred to anyone that a teacher armed with a general, malleable theory who could self-analyze and react to different teaching situations might better stimulate the writing process and help students become better writers. Or maybe that did occur to someone, but they didn't know how to test it. After all, we need a way to gauge students before they hit the workplace. Knowledge exists in a vacuum and, thus, it can be taught and tested that way.

I'm ranting, and perhaps not making any sense. My annoyance derives specifically from the way that we as a culture, in our fetishizing of science cut out the parts of human beings that are messy. We relegate them to teenagers and chick-flicks, alcoholics, and fools. Occasionally someone says something brilliant and we quote it like a fortune cookie, put it up on our wall and cease to reconsider it in new ways. We search for ways to scientifically prove things the common person already knows is true. Male scientists "prove" that hormones affect people (specifically women) or psychologists "prove" suppression of emotion is unhealthy. Well, now that we've proven it I can feel better about myself.

I'm not arguing against science here, I'm arguing against science as religion. Once science becomes a vacuum, a place where all truth resides and neglects to acknowledge the existence, or even the possibility of existence, of truth outside of what it might hypothesize and/or prove it ceases to be useful. It becomes reductive and limiting. It no longer allows us to better understand our world, anticipate and live in it, but tells us what we may or may not do/believe/allow. It tells us what we should or should not feel, what is and is not valid. Why do women get angry when you ask them if they are PMSing? Because you are invalidating their emotions. You are, in effect, saying "if you were rational, non-hormonal, manly, you wouldn't feel this and, thus, I do not have to acknowledge with any seriousness or contemplation on my part what you are saying." This happens because now we know what PMS is; we have proven it. But we never bothered to consider if PMS creates emotion or exacerbates it. If it is actually controllable or not.

I am not suffering from PMS right now. And my problems, while most recently inflamed by composition scholarship, are not about any one thing. They are, rather, an issue with society as a whole. That's not surprising really, but what I ask you is--after you discover how something happens do you ever really consider why?

In an effort to avoid doing homework I should be doing, I am instead going to write about the silliness of crushes.

Now, I say silliness, but in all honesty I think there is something healthy, necessary, and adorable in one's ability to "have a crush." I myself began to wonder if I wasn't dead inside because I didn't have one for well over four years or so. When you find yourself liking someone--wanting to get to know them, see them, spend time with them--it rejuvenates you to some degree. I also find it intensely annoying, but I think it shows that the tender emotions are alive and well.

What is it about us that causes us to crush? This is the question I find myself pondering. Is a crush different than being in lust, or in love for that matter? In my late teens and early twenties I pondered the idea of love at first sight to a painful degree. It seems that when one discusses love, or the one (if there is just one) you cannot avoid the discussion of whether you believe in love at first sight or not. And if you develop a crush but not immediately does that cheapen whatever connection may arise from there? If you don't immediately want to be close to someone does that mean that any longings or urges thereafter are less sincere? Finally, is having a crush the same as having lust? Or is lust always a crush, but having a crush not always lust?

This is the problem with higher education, I can wax philosophical on just about anything.

But this is an issue I haven't given much thought, at least not in a good five years or so. Having a crush, certainly talking about it, is thought of as a young person's urge--I think. Certainly drawing your name and someone else's with a heart around it is juvenile, but what about seriously considering the feelings and where they come from? Is it immature because it's a crush, or something not enough adults do for fear of being laughed at? I figure I might as well have at it since my tolerance for being laughed at is so high, and I think someone ought to do it.

We'll start with the crush/lust dynamic. I think you can lust without a crush--this seems obvious by every person that has ever wanted to sleep with someone, but didn't necessarily want to date or know them. I don't know that you can crush without lust, however. What is a crush if it doesn't involve sex, after all; wouldn't that just be friendship? And how do we account for crushes that arise later in a relationship and not immediately; I don't think a feeling is less real or viable because it was lacking an immediate connection. And that brings me to love at first sight.

I don't think I believe in love at first sight. I have certainly felt an (almost) overwhelming lust when seeing someone; I have also felt an undeniable urge to get to know a person or spend time with them. But I don't think I would call this love. Even when things work out and you do end up dating or what-have-you, it doesn't seem in my experience that the initial emotion would qualify as love. It is romantic to think of love at first sight as real, and, perhaps, one could claim that connection at first sight is real, but is love possible in an instant? Or, perhaps it is always love at first sight because even if you've known a person for years you find yourself in one moment, unexpectedly, loving them and seeing them anew for the first time? That I could believe.

I think the biggest thing that has my thoughts in a bind, however, is telling the difference between true like/lust/love and being lonely. Sometimes when you're lonely enough you seriously contemplate romantic thoughts where you never would if things were different. Naturally, if things weren't the way they are they would be different, but my point here is that is it possible to trust such feelings when such loneliness is present? And, if you are desperate, lonely, whatever, how do you know when something that started in that situation became something real or recognize it for the filler that it is? On the flip side of this I have to wonder how often romantic tendencies are brushed off because a person is happy in their solitude. Having a crush or any variation thereof is annoying--you find yourself thinking on a person, wishing to see them, wanting to talk to them and suddenly the island of you just isn't enough any more. That is so darn frustrating when you are a loner like myself. In that case, should one pay more attention to a crush that has gotten through the layers of solitude, or does it just mean that everyone like someone from time to time? I seem to have nothing but questions for you today.

I know what a healthy relationship should look like, but I'm not sure I know how one would feel. I certainly haven't had one in my adult years and now, the older I get, the more I flounder as I consider how to progress. Certainly there are some rules that clarify things for me--never approach anyone in a relationship or that you think would be perfect if he just changed a little. These are easy rules to follow, but don't necessarily stop the feelings themselves. That in turn leads us to the ultimate question of how does one shake an unwanted crush? I've been asking that since high school and I don't think I know of anyone that has an answer. I think that is why the book He's Just Not That Into You annoyed the crap out of me. It doesn't matter if he isn't into me; it doesn't matter that logically I know that. The problem is that I am into him. Of course, being able to vocalize to myself that I should wait for someone who is into me helps put things in perspective, but these tender emotions still persist. Did I say I was glad I wasn't dead inside?

Frankly, life is so much easier when you are the person you can be instead of working at being the person you want to be. That's pretty much the only nugget I have garnered from this contemplation on crushes. There is a positive side to all of this, though: all-in-all I'm significantly less insane than I was in high school. At least I've got that going for me.

I'm at my computer for the first time in over a week. It's really rather liberating. I don't have internet access at home you see, and I've been camping so there has been no email checking, no web surfing, and definitely no blogging. Never fear, however, I've been writing in my head.

Of course, I've also been drinking so I might forget everything I've written.

Let me begin with how much I love to camp. It is difficult in this day and age to say you "love" anything without sounding sentimental and clichéd, but I do love to camp. It makes me happy. I can't wait to go and I rarely want to leave. The real problem with describing it isn't so much that it sounds bad to say "love" as it is that love no longer carries the weight it should--thus when I say I love to camp it sounds like I like it a lot. In reality I think I need to camp or my soul withers and dies. That perhaps better communicates what the great outdoors does for me.

I was in California, near the beach and spent my days on the beach. I watched the sun set over the ocean; I played in the water. I laughed as surfers rode the waves. I woke up cold, but with fantastic bed head every morning. I don't know how I feel about California. I vacillate on how much I like it, but it is beautiful. There are a lot of people there, but I understand why. And the Pacific ocean, oh the Pacific. Is it any wonder so many people run to it? I have to admit, I think I prefer the Pacific to the Atlantic. I know coastal people are very protective of their ocean, but the Pacific is just so fantastic. It feels bigger. And the water is so gorgeous. One gets in and for just a second you're not sure you care if you are swept out to sea or not. I understand, I think, why people chose life on the sea. It is never easy for me to leave the ocean when I'm not living next to it.

All of this is waxing philosophical of course about the beauty of nature and the spiritual aspect of camping--boring stuff I know. If it makes you feel better I alternated between expanding my consciousness and checking out surfer boys who were way to young for me. This is the duality of my self. Truth-seeking philosopher on one part, shameless male objectifier on the other. My fellow campers and I also spent a great part of the weekend discussing various liquids produced by the body (specifically urine) so don't believe for an instant we were all sitting around being deep.

And I must tell the tale of the wonder twins. While two of us were off walking I stepped away for a bathroom break and a walk myself leaving two others back at the campsite. When I returned I saw our group had grown by two twenty-one year old undergrads. Both of these young men were incredibly intoxicated and so intent on imparting life knowledge to us that it can be described as nothing but precious. There were two moments in particular: the first came when it was still myself and two others trying to casually usher the drunk bopsy twins out of our campsite. "These are the best years of our life!" one slurred at us. "This is it. After this it's all over." Such words of wisdom from a twenty-one year old. He went on to ask if we had read Death of a Salesman and one of us had, but none of us were particularly interested in discussing it. That didn't stop him, though, oh no. Plunging ahead he informed us that after college life was, in effect, over. We didn't correct him that we had all survived graduation happily. No doubt the idea of out growing the nineteen and twenty year old girls he has been dating is disturbing him greatly.

The second great moment came when genius #1 asked the men in our group if they preferred to masturbate right handed or left handed. This in itself wasn't spectacular (I had already covered all necessary masturbation questions on the first day as is my habit) but he followed his question with a disclaimer to the other female and myself. "I'm sorry ladies, you may not know this," he said helpfully, "but everybody masturbates." I'm really, truly happy I ran into him on this camping trip. Had he not been there to inform me that everyone masturbates and to watch out for my female sensibilities I might have gone to the grave thinking the only person masturbating in this world is me. And that would have been just sad.

There was also a reasonably entertaining story containing the characters of Den Mother, Goofy-foot Dudley, and Dirty Harry the girl with more hair, but those characters will find life in other writings. The humor really revolved around the young Leonardo Davinci relating the story more than it did the characters themselves. All-in-all a very memorable experience.

I'm working my way up to more thought-provoking writing on alphas vs. betas, highschool crushes, and masturbating, but I'm not quite there yet. I'm still trying to get over my separation from the ocean and even though I don't hate the desert--it certainly has its moments and its beauty--I might have to live on a coast some day. Of course, I still have to get a grown up job and that means I might end up in Arkansas, but we'll all hope that doesn't come to pass.

Until then I bid you adieu, and offer you this picture from my weekend.

I finished my latest cowboy series tonight, and I'm left feeling exceptionally bereft. Not that the show was all that good, but I thought I had a whole other disc to go through and then...it was just done. It's such a shock when your cowboys are taken from you so suddenly, especially since it didn't seem like a series finale--I can't help but wonder if they were hoping to get picked up again the next season. Oh well, I guess The Magnificent Seven will not be riding again anytime soon.

The cowboy archetype is a strange one, though. It's had me thinking on it for the past few days. Cowboys (as a character) are polite but traditional, fair but patriarchal, intelligent but down-home. He's the alpha male without all the pomp and circumstance, the true alpha. He doesn't need to prove he's the best, the strongest, the fastest, it just rolls off of him in spades. He also treats ladies with respect, but it's a respect born of a cultural norm I despise. And yet, every time he tips his hat to a lady I swoon.

So what in the world is a girl like me, crazy ball-busting (and ball-loving) feminist that I am, doing loving on cowboys?

I don't know if it could ever work in reality. He equates irrationality and hysteria with women and all that is strong, rational, and good with men. I equate that sort of mindset with idiot. But then he wears those boots and rides a horse and shoots a gun. And I don't even like people who are big on guns. Cowboys are inherently Republican--I'm inherently not. They like a woman who can be a lady and I like a man who'll love me while I fart. You see my problem here?

What is it that draws me back time and time again to the cowboy fantasy then? What is it about this archetype that makes it so appealing? I would hazard that part of it was my upbringing; being in the midwest the sort of ubermensch rough-riding rebel appeals to me. But has my socialization been so strong that I can't shake it or is there something about the cowboy archetype that appeals to me as a heterosexual female? Is there even any way to figure it out?

The way to discover my answer, I suppose, would be to look at the qualities I find so appealing and decide if they are inherently "cowboy" qualities (whatever those may be) or qualities owing nothing to any particular type. The qualities would be (at a guess) in no particular order: moral goodness--not Bible-thumping god-fearing moral goodness, but run into a burning building to save a baby moral goodness. The kind that doesn't hit other people without good reason, stands up for the little guy and never, ever judges unless given proof of character failing. Strength--both physical and mental. Someone who can lift what needs to be lifted, work hard all day and what not. Someone who also handles stress well, adversity and all that. Crying is natural and fine, but crying every day/week/month because something went wrong? A little excessive. Intelligence--duh. He doesn't have to be the same smart as me, but he does need to be reasonably educated, and quick witted. Good at what he does--talent is sexy. I won't say it has to be a cowboy talent--carpentry, music, hell even math--any talent is fine. Deep--hanging out with shallow people, people with nothing to talk about and no ability to learn is exhausting not stimulating. Funny--must be able to laugh. Nobody likes a sourpuss.

So these aren't specifically cowboy traits. I suppose the respect that I find so enamoring in cowboys falls into the moral goodness category, respect without judgment. Hard to pull off but so incredibly attractive when done well. The actual cowboy gun-slinging activities would fall into talent and strength categories. And, of course, it occurs to me now that what I'm describing here is a hero. The cowboy archetype is just one more version of the hero archetype. And that, of course, brings us back around to square one. Are heroes sexy because heroism appeals to some innate attraction zone inside of me, or have I been socialized to find heroism hot? Or is it both?

This might seem like an odd tangent to consider, but you have remember that knowing why you like something is often as important as knowing what you like. Liking what you like is not nearly as harmless as everyone would like to believe. That doesn't come from a Southern Baptist place of judgment, just cold experience. My hero worship isn't necessarily as dangerous or destructive as someone's say, rape fantasy (many people, men and women, have them) or ethnic preference or any other socialized unhealthy yearning we hide behind "it's just what I like." But it does shape what I look for in men, how I approach men, and how much I allow men their humanity--which, for those of you keeping score is what I'm always harping on is being denied women. Stupid knife, cutting both ways. You'd think girls would get at least a good decade or two to objectify men. But no, we have to be all wise and mature about it--recognize that just because he's a hero doesn't mean he's not human and vice versa. So inconvenient.

I guess where I'm going with this is the question, do you fall for and seek out the archetype because it is so much less messy than a real person, or do you try to find it because that's what you really want? And if you really want just the archetype (which, even as I type this I realize I don't) what does that say about what you're looking for in a relationship? An archetype would be sort of like a blow-up doll that talks.

But even after voicing all of this I'm not sure I could shake my attraction to specific male characteristics and my lack of attraction to others. And if that is true, how do you ever change what society has taught you? Should you try? Is it worth it? Do you try to keep it from happening to your kids?

Or do you just like what you like and move on?

Ack! I just read some really interesting composition theory (trust me, it is interesting to those of us who've forgotten the meaning of fun) and now I'm having a completely crisis of teaching ability. Am I teaching my student's what they need to know or just what I think they should know? How do I know the difference? How do I offer the best classroom environment possible to enable them to learn? Why do I care so much?

I blame this all on my mother. That darned saintly woman that she is taught special-ed for thirty odd years, and she didn't do it because she couldn't figure out what she wanted to do, or because she liked the breaks. She did it because she cared. And she cared about the kids. When she retired, tired and beaten, she said "I wasn't sick of the kids. It was never the kids." That's a special sort of teacher right there. The sort of teacher we all wish we had and hope our kids have. A teacher that isn't in it for herself, but because she feels like she can do something for a particular educational practice. I think that mindset goes for doctors, lawyers, policemen, firefighters, and paramedics too (and anyone else I left out). So now, here I am a teacher--not always because I have saintly ambitions so much as no direction--and I am scared to death what I'm teaching isn't what I should be teaching. I have good materials to work with, but not the best. I have good supervisors to work with, but because of the sheer volume of graduate students they can't keep a close eye on us all. That means I'm mostly unsupervised. Moreover, their teaching theory is slightly different then mine. I don't know if that means one of us is right or wrong, but it means that I'm flying free. I love to fly free; I live to fly free, but what if my flying free hurts the students? What if I'm not careful enough, learned enough, or pointed enough in my teaching?

You see my fears here. On the one hand freshman composition is not all that important in the long run. No matter how badly I screw up I will never be as bad as others or as good as some, and the students will not be traumatized for life. On the other hand, I want to be a good teacher. Unfortunately, just like parenting, wanting doesn't make it so. I still have to work at being a good teacher. Why did I pick this profession? What sort of silliness prompted me to come back to school?

That's not fair. If I still worked my office job I would be morbidly obese (even by my own standards) incredibly unhappy, and most likely self-destructive. School was the right choice, we all know this. But why can't I accept being a mediocre teacher? That, perhaps, is the better question. And, for any teachers out there, does anyone set out to be a mediocre teacher? Some days we just don't care, but overall, do you think, "eh, whatever"? And theory is great; theory is necessary. I love theory. But you still have to be able to think on your feet. You still have to be able to react to the different classroom dynamics of each class. I think academics are responsible, to some degree, for the classroom stereotyping. Sure, college freshman are A LOT alike, and a lot of their thought processes are similar, but you can't approach each class the same. You don't have all the same "teachable moments", as one of my professors would say.

I don't think I could ever be a nurse or a doctor. Assuming I could get over the body stuff (clean-up sure, sticking anybody with anything, not so much) I don't think I would ever shake the anxiety of messing up. I had one student chose to write about the stereotypes of cops for his first paper, and in arguing against the stereotypes that all cops are bad, he said that all cops were good. He even acknowledged that abuse of power sometimes happens, but it was just because they're people too and have a bad day. In talking over his paper with him I was pointing out why you can't argue a stereotype with a stereotype, and said something along the lines of isn't it those bad and good days that make both stereotypes false? And don't you need to explore the complexity of what you're arguing since when a cop has a bad day somebody goes to jail, or dies? I'm not relating the conversation very well, but I remember thinking, here is this guy who wants to be a cop, and will make a good one I think, but he has no idea why the pressure is so great. It's great because you have to make hard decisions and see horrible things, but it's also great because you don't always get to have a bad day. You don't get to be off you're game.

Teaching is obviously not life and death like that, but I wonder how it is we prepare students for those situations. After all, since I'm teaching them to think through writing, the emphasis being on thinking, I am hoping that these cognitive skills will carry over into their professions. What I teach badly and somebody becomes a bad lawyer, or doctor, or cop? I am, of course, assuming entirely too much responsibility, but it is sort of the dilemma of the teacher. You don't want to (nor should you) just teach punctuation and word choice. But once you try to teach more there is always the possibility of failure.

And since people aren't a mathematical equation how do I account for all their variables to minimize my failure? This is why I shouldn't read theory or philosophy or any thing more complex than a trashy romance novel. Nothing good ever comes of it!

I'm going back to waxing philosophical about love.

So I've finally read and watched A Streetcar Named Desire. What an odd thing to do after musing (half-asleep) on love last night. And I have to say Stanley Kowalski does not make any lists of hot men that I want to have relations with. He's up there with Heathcliff as just plain evil no matter how hot Marlon Brando was when he played him.

I've discovered that while I have extremely sketchy taste in men (sometimes even in men that are arguably not human) I don't particularly go in for the obvious abusers. A little rough-housing, a big fight or two sure--maybe even someone that can provide rough angry sex on occasion, but just plain beating me? So not hot. While reading Wuthering Heights it was the moment Heathcliff decided to hurt Hadley's child to get back at Hadley that did it for me, with Stanley it was the rape of Blanche. If Blanche were a little more into it sure, but she's not. She's crazy, and maybe she used to be a whore, but she's scared of Stanley--and not in any sort of hot, sexy way. Nope, Marlon Brando is incredibly attractive in the role, but I just can't bring myself to feel anything but revulsion for him. I take this as a good sign. Maybe I'm not as emotionally hopeless as previously imagined.

Taking a class such as I am taking this semester and reading the texts I'm reading does make for intense personal revelation, or perhaps, personal remembrance. I firmly believe I was wiser--in a naive way--at fourteen than I am now. At fourteen I knew certain things were true, but I didn't understand why they were true. I didn't understand all the contexts and complications that can muddy the waters, as it were. This meant that when things got gray, when life presented the same situation in a different light I was incapable of remembering what I already knew. I was incapable of recognizing how often different things are all the same. It has taken many, many mistakes for me to reach a place where I once again know and believe all the things I did at fourteen, but I feel I am stronger in a way I couldn't be then. I think personal discovery is important for understanding; some people are more capable of understanding and accepting things than others without it, but I don't think that demeans its importance.

And this brings me back around to love and Streetcar. Our concept of "love" is a construct--this can be proven by tracing the intellectual history of mankind. But our behaviors in love, how does one begin to ascertain what is inherent in the human condition and what is learned? Why do people stay in abusive relationships? Why do people crave "true love"? Why do strive to be monogamous and search for "the one?" How do you tell the difference between seeking personal fulfillment through "love" and having personal fulfillment and seeking companionship? It seems there must be some inherent need in the human being to seek out kindness and acceptance, but how much is inherent and how much is learned? That, I suppose, is really the question I ask.

Is it any wonder no one has snatched me up yet? I can see it now:

Him: Honey I love you.
Me: Really? Are you sure it's love or are you just feeling lonely? And what is love anyway? Do you think I'm the one? Are you realistic about the fights we will have and the lack of romance in our future? Are you prepared to love through anything and not cheat on me? Are you prepared to handle all of my vulnerabilities and be completely vulnerable with me? What socially constructed ideas about gender roles and love are you carrying? And most importantly, do you think you can stand my family?

He would then be silent and perplexed. I would probably fart, blow my nose like a foghorn, or both soon after.

So what is love?

If, after all of that--farting, nose-blowing and all--he just grabbed me and kissed me, that might be love. Hence why I keep saying "liberal barbarian." He needs to vote democrat, and shut me up with kisses when I start trying to define the theory of love.

And he could wear itty-bitty-teeny-tiny-little-leather-panties. Yeah, we'll go with that as a "working definition" of love.

What do you do when you want to write but have nothing to say? A wiser person would perhaps write nothing, but I think it has become abundantly clear at this point that I am not a wiser person--at least not compared to some. I write this from my new apartment. I am moved in, unpacked, and it feels good. It's nice to have my own place again, nice to nest. I made a crack earlier today about how I am half cancer half leo; due to my birthday I am a cusp baby. This means that I always want to move, but always want to nest. I think this paradox describes me in spades. And people say astrology isn't true.

One thing did happen tonight; I had the realization that the same tactics I employ with my students and harp in my teaching--being able to explain the why or the theory behind one's thoughts is lacking in most aspects of life. Perhaps I can explain.

When one is teaching it is widely known that it is incredibly important that a teacher know why she teaches what she teaches. She needs to understand the theory behind her thoughts and actions. I also force this on my students by constantly asking them why. They hate me and I don't blame them for it, but it makes for better arguments, better writing, and (frankly) better thoughts. Tonight in a philosophical discussion about love--not even involving drunkenness or pot--I listened to people describe their ideas on love and realized that theory, if I can appropriate the word, is something lacking in most people's thoughts. This may sound highly egotistical of me, but I think it is a rarity for someone to be able to define an abstract thought or belief, without basing it entirely on example.

In "love" examples would be doing something that makes someone happy, engaging in an activity that offers a feeling of completeness or connectivity. But I wanted to ask (and didn't because I knew it would be way to teachery of me) why those activities offer such a good feeling and why the idea of being connected is important. How often in life do we use words to describe a feeling without really understanding why that word works or even what it means in other terms? I say true love should be unconditional and then I define unconditional by actions. But what do those actions symbolize? Why do they cause the feelings in me they do? These are the questions I think that are often left unexplored.

It seems people in general, and certainly me in particular, use language to approximate an experience but never push their own language, and by extension their thoughts, to a place where they can name wholly what they really feel, felt, or think. Now, as I say this I admit that I don't think many things can ever be named wholly--how could you ever nail down exactly how your mother makes you feel? But often we stop at a cliché or a Hallmark card instead of figuring out what it is about that cliché or card that so captures what we are going for. Is any of this making sense? It's been a very long week and I may very well be rambling.

But how often do we know why we do what we do? How often are we aware of how our actions appear to others? How often do we think about what we believe and attempt to ascertain if it really is what we want to believe or just comfortable? I am not saying that people everywhere are living in ignorance (though I think a great many are) but rather that so many of us, myself included, don't like to think about things, least of all ourselves and our actions, to deeply. That isn't so much a revelation as a statement of well known truth. My point in restating it is simply to illustrate why I'm thinking on this discussion about love. It brings me back to a truth I already knew, many people don't actually like new, challenging knowledge, in a new way. And by arriving at this from a different angle I have a new understanding of it. I am, as Nietzsche would say making "unheard of connections and metaphors."

None of any that really matters of course. No one can give someone else truth I think. You can provide illumination, create the environment through words or pictures to allow for revelation, but I don't think it happens from someone else. I think it always has to happen within. Someone else might just provoke it a bit. And how fatalistic is that? But not sad.

Now I am rambling so I bid you adieu. I apologize to all for my blather and my arrogance, but most of all for subjecting you to a philosophical discussion about love. Though, I wasn't actually talking about love at all. But knowing that such a discussion took place is both sad and stereotypical. Sometimes I'm such a hippie grad student I amaze even myself.