The Fool

This past weekend I was hired to work at Scarborough Faire in Waxahachie, TX, just south of Dallas.  My job is to dress up as a jester and stand at the front gate and try to stop as many people as possible to take a picture from a disguised camera in a terrifying clown head on a stick.  Honestly, some of the children look at the clown head in terror, well documented by the photographs I take.  I stand in the blazing Texas sun for ten hours a day, working on the most awkward summer tan of my life including lines from my jester hat, glasses, collar, and the back of my costume where it ties together leaving a small gap. 

It is, however, not the worst job I’ve ever had in my life.  The direct sunlight is pretty awful, and by the end of the day my feet no longer resemble their normal shape, but the rest of it is quite enjoyable. My boss during my lunch break asked me how I liked my first weekend, and I told her the truth: I love the culture of renaissance festivals. The people are great, I love seeing part of the shows, I love to be a part of it, and I love dressing up.  To the last part, she laughed and said “yeah, but it would be a lot better if we weren’t jesters.” 

I laughed at her honesty, and at the fact that I was actually pleased to dress as a jester. I suppose that as a jester, you wear jingle bells, extremely bright colors in loud patterns, and your job as a jester is to be annoying and in people’s faces.  To act the part of the fool.

I’m really good at it. I’m quite persuasive at getting people to stop at the gate to take a picture, even those that initially say no, I get them to change their mind by relentless badgering and following with a persistent smile.  It’s my job.   And it’s a lot easier to be badgering and annoying as a jester.

“It would be a lot better if we weren’t jesters”

Actually, I think it would be a hell of a lot harder. You can get by with so much as a jester.

I surprise myself with what I do in my costume, performing the role of a jester.  I tell people that they are beautiful, and then when they reject my offer to take a photograph I retort, “Fine! I take it back! You are ugly!” And actually, because I’m a jester, they laugh.

At the gate, when we try to stop them to look at their photographs before they leave the park, another jester tells them “Stop! Stop and look at your photographs of yourselves when you were much more handsome without sweat and sunburn!” Every time, they laugh.

“It would be a lot better if we weren’t jesters”

Maybe there is some embarrassment associated with being the fool, intentionally acting stupid and obnoxious and persistent and over the top. Maybe it is because we don’t want people to assume that the costume is our entire being.  We all want some separation of the actions we do and the identity we claim, and so often others interpret our actions as our entire identity. 

The easiest example of this is when someone steals.  It is so easy to say “that person is a thief” rather than “that person stole a wallet.”  You are not just the actions you do. We are so much more complex.  We do a lot of competing actions that communicate opposite facets of identity.  Two days a week I’m a teacher.  Two days a week I’m a fool.  Three days a week I reside in Liminality.

So of course some of my fellow jesters feel embarrassed to don the jingle bells and bright blue cap. They don’t want to be perceived as a fool and only a fool to the thousands of people that walk through the gate. So I understand the want to dress up as something other than a jester.

But as I watch the groups of people walk through the gate and notice the patterns of people, the role of the jester becomes easier and easier.  I lost count of Doctor Who and Firefly shirts after about 40. Every body type showing a lot of skin. Hundreds of tattooed and pierced bodies. Corsets made out of batman comics or hoop skirts with hello kitty fabric.  Pirate costumes, mermaid costumes, wizard costumes, monk costumes, fairy costumes. Gay and lesbian couples holding hands. Lots of them.

Scarborough Faire is a place to belong for those that sometimes have a hard time fitting in. For those that often feel like the fool.

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Almost exactly a year ago, I went to Scarborough Faire for the first time.  I went to the Renaissance Festival every year in Minnesota with my mom when I was growing up, and it was by far one of my favorite memories. 

Last year, I went to Scarborough Faire the same day before the evening I broke up with Pat.  My loving friends essentially kidnapped me for the day to distract me before my life would change.  Since that day at Scarborough Faire, I felt indebted to the festival and to the three women that got me through that day without feeling like a fool.

I drank a lot (on a Sunday, too, right away when the pubs opened at 11).  I had a turkey leg at 10am. We met the dirty poet and after I told him I was going to end a 5 year relationship, he recited a poem just for me. I had my tarot cards and my palms read by a woman that told me to have a lot of meaningless sex.

I remember during my tarot reading at Scarborough Faire, the fool came up in my future. It’s funny to think that it could have predicted something as literal as playing a fool at Scarborough Faire almost exactly a year later, but symbolically, that’s not what the fool represents.

The fool, unlike the interpretation of my co-workers, actually represents a type of wisdom: a childlike or mad-like wisdom.  It’s not necessarily a wisdom that makes a lot of sense, but something that sometimes comes out of trickery or chaos. It basically states when you are able to submit to your inner most desires, you will find wisdom.

Sometimes, the fool can represent a state of Liminality.

If you have known my year, you will know the fool is wise.

“It would be a lot better if we didn’t have to be jesters.”

If only she knew how much I beg to differ.  I thank you, my fool, my jester, for this year. For the Liminality. For the wisdom out of chaos. For forcing me to submit to my inner most desires. I’m proud to wear your hat.

A letter to my dear, sweet, lovable thesis.

I have a love-hate relationship with my thesis.  I’m proud of my research and I love what I’m writing about, but 3 years in and I’m tired of the process and sometimes tired of my subject. Sometimes I want to research something else, and it feels like I’m cheating.  It’s spring break, and once again, I’m reminded that grad students don’t get breaks.  Spring break in its wild and bad-choices nature is reserved for undergrads.  I’ll be spending my spring break grading and working on my thesis. A thesis is somewhere between a child you give birth to, and an abusive lover.  It’s needy and completely dependent on you and is a product of you like a child from your womb.  At the same time, it also tells you that you are a great writer and a terrible writer with hardly 30 seconds between.  It will slap you in the face and then come crawling back saying it can’t live without you (and a quick addition at the end: “and who are you kidding, you can’t really live without me either.”) It takes up all of your time and makes you feel guilty for spending time with anyone/anything else.

I am SO CLOSE to ending my relations with my thesis, but sometimes it feels so incredibly far away, and so impossible. And then when I’m done with the editing bit, I have to defend it.  I can hear myself now, begging to my committee, “It doesn’t mean to be so needy.  It’s still young.  Please be patient.”  Or worse, “It’s not a bad thesis, it just slaps me in the face sometimes.” 

I’m going to hell.

This morning, as I reflect on the last few years, and what this thesis has meant to me, I write a letter.

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Dear Thesis-

I remember when you were just a twinkle in my eye, a tiny little seed of an idea swimming in my brain.  I had all of these dreams for you. You, my little brain child, would help me pave the way, make the Lovoll name known.

Then you became a teenage prospectus, and you got a little bit of an attitude, and if I might say, a bit of an ego.  You thought you could do everything, and you set out to do it, but forgot that you are still a child, and you are completely dependent on me.  I will never get back the sleep I lost doing transcriptions for you late into the night at IHOP.  I’ve put blood, sweat, and tears (so many tears) into raising you, and you give me nothing but the silent treatment (or at best, more tears.)

After awhile, you became a little more mature.  Physically, you were 100 pages, so you were clearly growing up, and I slowly realized I was not your mother.  You went through a Jekyll-Hyde type transformation.  My thesis child, whom I cared for like a child, was now somehow an angry, feelings-eating, abusive, and occasionally violent monster. The words on the page would paralyze me, in fear of getting slapped again, in fear of letting you make me cry again. You made me feel stupid, worthless, helpless, and above all, like I didn’t belong. You would send me away crying and I’d come right back to you in the morning and cry again. I don’t know how our relationship got like that, but it was bad. Sometimes I blame you for ruining other things in my life; other times I blame other things for ruining you. Either way, I had to break up with you, and ignore you for awhile.  Eventually, after talking about you to some other people, I no longer referred to you as some Mr. Hyde angry monster.  I found the antidote to make you stay in the form of Dr. Jekyll.

Thesis, I don’t think you’ve read Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (it’s not on your reference list), so you should probably know: that’s not necessarily a good thing either.  Dr. Jekyll was egotistical and although he might deny it, liked the idea of playing God.  He let his work consume him completely which is how we came to Mr. Hyde in the first place, and his other relationships suffered for it.  

Thesis, I don’t want to be Dr. Jekyll.  I am your keeper, but I will not become the kept. Your work is almost done, and I beg you, when it’s done let it be done.  I don’t want to carry you with me to new projects; I can’t take the risk of letting you become Mr. Hyde again. So basically what I’m asking, Dear Thesis, is that when we are done with this at the end of the semester, please leave me alone. I’m tired of reading about No Child Left Behind.  I’m tired of getting depressed with all of the things wrong with the education system. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of you. You wouldn’t exist without me, after all.  I will always be proud of you, and always have a little place in my heart for you, but that doesn’t mean I want to see you ever again. I don’t. I love you, but you can fuck off.

I hope you don’t collect too much dust, sitting on my shelf.

Love and hate always,

Ani

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Y’all, I recognize my thesis is an inanimate object.  I also recognize this probably shares some weird shit about my psyche.  But in all honesty, this is what it feels like to write a thesis.

I hope you all make bad/fun/wild choices over spring break while I sit at the coffee shop with my laptop. I can live vicariously through you. 

Radical Self Love: My own experiment

I watched a TedTalk recently about “radical self love” after talking about the idea with Rose Tyler.  Radical self love is the response to the cultural pressures we face every day to “radically hate” ourselves through constant criticisms (which come from ourselves and others) negative talk (towards ourselves and others) and a denial of compliments, love, and positive talk (…from ourselves and others). 

The manifesto to the woman who created “radical self love,” Gala, is as follows:

“Strive to always be thankful and optimistic.  Focus your gaze on what is good & positive; never dwell on the negative.  Do not allow your life to make you cynical or closed off.  Remaining open & true to yourself is a life-long adventure, & the only one worth having.  Choose to see the best in people.  Never be afraid to ask for what you really, really want.  To love, purely & fiercely, without agenda, is the most terrifying & rewarding thing you’ll ever do.  Travel is essential to the spirit.  A pear of great shoes means nothing if you have an ugly heart.  Try your hardest not to judge anyone else; it never leads anywhere good.  Always avoid tabloids & gossip; they destroy the soul.  Be kind & loyal.  Many things in this world are more important than money.  Always trust your intuition, always.  Rescue animals, it will strengthen your heart.  Never delight in anyone else’s misery.  Trust in others.  You are your own best investment.   Believe in the magic of a new day & a fresh start.  Follow your bliss.  Do more of what you love.  Always do the best you can.  Create your own family & care for them ferociously.  When people offer you opportunities that scare you, say yes: it’s the very best way to grow.  You are never as stuck as you think.  Stay eager.  Love yourself.  Say yes to the adventure of life.”

In the TedTalk, Gala talks about some ways to put this manifesto to practice in your life.  Take notes of the compliments you get, write a list of “thankful on Thursday,” avoiding tabloids, and keeping a book of the things that you see in yourself as beautiful, to look at any time you feel like shit. 

Here’s the TedTalk if you want to watch: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GFXHYtY9ag8&feature=player_embedded

I surround myself with intellectuals.  I, myself, am an intellectual.  (This blog is based on a theory from cultural anthropology, for Crisssakes.) As such, if I’m not going through an existential crisis, one of my friends is. If I’m not bombarded with critiques and “it’s not good enough” or “no, I haven’t read that yet” or “shit, I guess I really don’t understand that theory,” then I must have my fuck-it switch on. 

At one point, my last year of grad school coursework, the negativity was so bad in our office, our boss put up a sign that said “Go TAS! You Rock!” along with bubbles, crayons, and candy.  Yes, it really did brighten the mood.

So as an intellectual (an existential, self-criticizing, and often negative intellectual), I’ve decided to take some suggestions from Gala, and do some Radical Self Love. This is my list of things that I find beautiful about me.

1)   I am an intellectual. Yeah it makes me negative, which is why I have to do some radical self love in the first place, but I think my brain makes me beautiful. I’ve always been proud of being the smart kid, but as Gala states, we aren’t really allowed to be proud of these things.  So often I say “no, I’m really not that smart,” or “I just like to read.” But no, I have a damn good (and complex) thesis that’s taken me a long time to finish- partly because I took on a lot. I’m smart, dammit.

2)    I have a great sense of humor.  You can tell by how much I laugh. J

3)   I have bright blue eyes. If you catch me in the right light, they are actually quite striking.

4)   I have a lovely smile with great teeth- you know I’ve never had to have braces?  I’m really lucky that my teeth grew in naturally straight and appropriately portioned

5)   I don’t really care if you like big girls or not, I have a great ass. And boobs.  They’re big….but they’re nice.

6)   I think a lot and I’m very logical, but I’m also an empath. I feel, and I feel all the feels (I really am a true green-blue).  When I love, I love hard, I love deep (that goes for friends, family, and otherwise).  When you tell me your problems, I fucking feel them.  On occasion, I hate this, because feelings are really hard. But I do truly believe this is one of the things that makes me beautiful.

So….that list is really hard to write. When you are so used to finding your flaws and what you could improve on yourself, writing what you like about yourself (especially physically) is a challenge, especially knowing this will be public.

I want to see your list. Go public with me.  Tell the world why you love you.

Tell me in the comments, if you wish: what do you think makes you beautiful? 

Burning the candle at both ends: Justification for PhD?

I’ve always had a habit of doing too many things.  About a week and a half before my grandma died, she got onto me about “burning the candle at both ends.”  She kept telling me, “If you burn the candle at both ends you’ll run out of wick and be left in the dark.”  This was during my second semester in grad school when I had picked a thesis topic and began my research, was in the middle of rehearsals for a show I was in about a week later, and in significantly harder classes than my first semester.  I had also gotten a research assistantship in lieu of one of my classes, so I had 2 teaching preps and a research load.  You could definitely say that I was burning the candle at both ends. 

We went to a Chinese restaurant, one of my favorite places in Northfield, Mandarin Garden.  The meal itself was mostly insignificant, discussing my research with my grandpa, and watching my grandma struggle to get any kind of food down.  The significant part of that meal was the message in my fortune cookie: “Be careful not to burn the candle at both ends.”  My grandma burst out laughing, and simply said “See? What did I tell you?” 

I’m sorry grandma.  I can’t shake the habit….

Even after she died, I continued to burn the candle at both ends.

She died the week before finals week.  I planned a good part of the funeral alongside my grandpa, delivered a eulogy, and was on the plane next day.  Off the plane, immediately to a final exam, followed by another final the next day, grading finals, grading papers, and the worst paper I’ve ever written (7 pages of 15 page minimum, mostly of tangents, and I don’t know how many grammatical errors and typos), earning the only C on a paper I’ve ever received in grad school.  (And yeah, it totally deserved the C.)  I then spent the next summer in the most intense and insane teaching program I’ve ever been in or heard of.  Over the summer I taught over 600 students between the ages of 5 and 65.  I went from that without a break into my final year of graduate school, during which I attempted to finish my thesis and instead ended my relationship with Pat.  Both of those “failures” I reconciled in therapy the next summer. 

And still, I burn the candle at both ends.  I double book social events on the same day, try to work several jobs and think “maybe I’ll start volunteering.” 

I sit and reflect, this very minute, so that I stop burning the candle for one hour (maybe more), letting the wax cool and reform to a solid, and be ready to burn again later.

This is what my last few days have looked like:

Thursday:

9am-12: grading and lesson prep, alternating with laundry and dishes and other random house stuff

12-1: errands (CVS, grocery store, gas, etc)

1-4: Editing performance script and prepping lesson during office hours

4:5:30- Teaching

6-9: memorize memorize memorize memorize

SLEEP (wow, decent sleep! Yeah!)

Friday:

9am-12: MEMORIZE MEMORIZE MEMORIZE MEMORIZE

12-2: figure out costume and then get into costume

2-5: rehearse in Black Box, prep for show.

5-6:30: Grad student/faculty showcase

6:30-7:30: try not to die during break.

7:30-9: Grad student/faculty showcase

9-10:15: Hooligans for K____’s birthday

10:15-11:15: Drive to pick up S____ and C____

11:15-11:45: Drive to Dallas

12:00-1: Sue Ellen’s Drag King Show

1-2:30: S4

2:30-3:00: Try really hard to find out where the fuck I parked in Dallas.

3:00-4:00 (FOUR AM PEOPLE, FOUR O’FUCKING’CLOCK AM): Drive home.

Saturday:

6:00am (SIX AM. SIX FUCKING AM.): Wake up, begrudgingly.

6:30am: Wake up again, begrudgingly.

7:00am: Finally put clothes on because I’m acting like a child.

7:20-8:30: Drive to Colleyville

8:30-7:30pm: Judging, judging, judging, judging, all of the judging, listening to high school freshmen talk about Kant, listening to high school seniors fuck up “hegemony” over and over and over, and more and more judging.

7:30-8:30pm: Drive home

8:30-9:30pm: Answer SO MANY EMAILS I didn’t get because I haven’t been at my computer

9:45-10:30pm: Dinner

10:45pm: Pass the fuck out.

Sunday (as in today)

9am-10am: General fucking around, writing lists because they are “productive.”

10-12: grading

12-12:30: admin shit (audit rolls and the like)

[side note, I hope you’ve noticed that as time has progressed on this report I’ve gotten more bitter and have been cursing a lot more.  That’s intentional.]

12:30-3: Thesis

3-4: NAP. BECAUSE.

4-5:30: Convincing myself to do something, by which I mean talking to Rose Tyler.

6:00-7:20: Dinner

7:20-NOW: Writing. Because I can’t do other shit.

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See, I’m not even in grad school anymore and somehow, I’m still getting myself into situations where I have to think about things for a whole day on 2 hours of sleep.  I can do it, but it’s getting a LOT harder than it used to be.

I came out of my performance on Friday feeling fantastic, and had a really great time judging at the debate tournament despite near delirium from limited sleep, and after some strange turn of events at Sue Ellen’s and S4, I came home thinking ,“You know what? I’m really happy single and doing these other great things. Why in the name of holy Batman am I dating?” A question I still can’t really answer.  Maybe it’s just another thing to keep me busy.  (Or fodder for writing, perhaps.)

Contrary to my grandma’s dying wishes, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop burning the candle at both ends. I prefer the busy and sleepless life.  You’ll never have stories from the nights you had plenty of sleep, right? 

What I’m really trying to say is…..PhD?