Judging Books by Covers

OED1_2410787b

If my bones were tree trunks, they’d have thirty-seven concentric circles inside. This is neither young nor old, and often I feel it is both, depending on the time of day.

Imposter syndrome is a real thing, and as I prepare for my first semester as an adjunct professor, I am wavering between excitement and nervousness, and often I feel it is both, depending on the time of day.

For years, I have yearned for my very own leather-bound, twenty-volume, tissue-paper-paged set of the Oxford English Dictionary. Since they cost around $2,000.00, my more realistic goal became to someday procure a condensed, leather-bound, two-volume version, complete with magnifying glass. They cost about $300.00, a sum I cannot see shelling out for two books, no matter how delicious they might smell. I’ve pictured their spines facing outward, sturdy and thick, on a shelf in my office, where I can reference them as I choose the perfect word for a story, or prepare a lecture that will disclose a word’s long-forgotten etymology, making a century’s old poem ring magically to a student in the back row.

Last week I found a condensed set on eBay. It was described as being in “near pristine condition,” save for a few scuffmarks on the blue leather of volume A-O and a missing magnifying glass. And they were…only…$30.00.

The dictionaries were being sold at this unbelievable price because, somehow, they had been bound upside-down. I didn’t even bid. I clicked “Buy now” and paid for standard shipping and let out a little squeal of delight.

Last Monday, S stayed home from camp and we planned a day of errands and fun. Errands first, he accompanied me to my alma mater/ new job so that I could untangle an IT issue, get my new photo ID, and secure a faculty parking pass.

The first two chores were completed quickly, but then I could not find the room where I was supposed to grab my sticker. As I stood near the window where I vaguely recalled signing for a commuter pass years ago, and as my eight-year-old boy chatted away about Pokémon and where he wanted to go for lunch, a man asked if I needed help.

I told him I needed to get a parking sticker. I asked if he knew what room.

“If you have a minute, I’ll walk you over,” he said.

We waited for him to finish up at the window and then followed him, a man twice my age, wearing shorts and running shoes, through the hallways.

About halfway down the main corridor, he looked at me and said, “Are you registering for classes this semester, dear?”

I said, “No. I’m going to get my faculty sticker.”

However, I did not say it with the power that I should have. My voice failed to convey the disgust I felt at being called “dear” by this man who was, I realized, now my colleague, and who had, I suppose, assumed that I could not be on his same level. My feminist pulse had stopped beating in that moment, and something else, something bigger, took over.

I am not completely sure anymore what he said after that, something about what department he worked in.

At the end of the hall I thanked him for his help and then found the room by myself.

As I have mentioned before, I was a student at this school, and not very long ago, because I returned to college the month after I turned thirty, on a quest to immerse myself in the study of literature and the craft of writing because it is a place that has always felt like home. I was a mother then, too, pushing against expectations about what it meant to be a student at a small liberal arts college. I knew my reaction to this man’s question was not because I objected to the notion that I could be a student, but at his assumption that I would be a student. And, most importantly, that I would somehow be okay with him calling me “dear.”

I hate admitting that my hushed reply to his question did not convey any twinge of anger. My reaction was, I think, the result of years of internalized misogyny and my own chicken shit fear of confrontation. The bitter taste that rose up in my mouth the moment this man uttered this question triggered a fight-or-flight response in me. Push back on his comment, or smile and answer politely? And perhaps because I was already feeling somewhat vulnerable, even in such a minor moment, I lost my nerve. Flight won the battle.

As S and I walked the rest of the way down the hall and then joined the zigzagging line of other drivers, I kept asking myself, “Is my outfit wrong? Is my hair too short? Too long? Is it because I am having a late-summer, stress-induced skin breakout, detracting from my wrinkles and making my skin appear adolescent? Is it my sneakers, a little too big, too squeaky, too strange-looking because I bought them on sale from my favorite boutique, and they are rope-soled and biodegradable, but in no way practical or comfortable? Is my posture wrong? My voice unsteady?”

Do I look out of place?

I got my parking sticker and took S out for lunch and back-to-school shopping. We went home and set up the sprinkler and both of us ran through it, jumping and laughing through the freezing cold spray. We played chess in the sun and saw parakeets in the maple tree. And I continued to ponder the morning, wondering how many times I fluctuate between young and old me-selves, the sprinkler-dancer and the academic, the mother and the child.

I wondered why I wondered what it was about my outward appearance that made this man make assumptions about me. I wondered how I often I make these same assumptions about others.

My upside-down dictionaries have been delivered. And they are huge and heavy and awesome.

 

“I would rather be a bad feminist than no feminist at all” –Roxane Gay, Bad Feminist: Essays

 

On John Donne and Fish Pedicures

IMG_0299

In an earlier post I mentioned worrying about landing a job. (I think I’ve written about worry in every blog post, but I won’t in this one!) I am grateful to say that the Fear of Unemployment ship has sailed for me. I landed a job as an adjunct, teaching one section for now, at the school where I did my BA, so the whole thing feels a little like coming home. With the remaining weeks of summer, I am sifting through the stacks and stacks of books heaped in the tiny room that will one day have shelves, and making long lists of poems and short stories and essays and maybe even a novel that I will teach to a classroom full of freshmen to spark their curiosity and make them fall in love with the written word. I hope.

I’m late (again) on my internal deadline of one blog post a week, but this time only by a few days. I have been working on an essay, which is finally finished and has been sent off to three literary magazines in the hopes that maybe one will pick me. I recently read this article about embracing rejection letters and I am going to try for a hundred, too.

Yesterday, S and I went to see a friend who is renting a beach house. An up-on-stilts, ocean-in-the-backyard, all-tile floors-to-easily-sweep-the-sand-away, beach house. They live in this town, so the rental is like a hybrid staycation/vacation. They can go home to feed their cats and don’t have to stop the mail, but they sleep with sliding glass doors open to the sounds of the waves crashing and hang soggy towels off the veranda to dry in the sun.

It was high tide when we got there and the view from this side of town is completely different, so we went for a swim. S and my friend’s niece joined us. It was late afternoon, when that pink beach light makes everyone’s skin look luminous.

We waded in waist-high and I was telling my friend about my new job while we watched the sun-baked kids with their primary-colored buckets and swimsuits try to catch the transparent little bodies of minnows swimming around us in schools.

The tiny darting fish reminded me of the fish pedicure trend that I read about a while back. A fish pedicure, or fish spa, is a treatment that involves submerging one’s feet into a tub of water filled with Garra rufa fish, also known as “doctor fish,” and then allowing the fish to eat away the dead skin.

The CDC website lists seven reasons why some states have banned this practice. The third reason is that the Chinese Chinchin, another species of fish, is often mislabeled as a Garra rufa and is then used in these fish spas. The problem with this mistake is that the Chinchin grows teeth and can draw blood, which is not only terrifying, but also increases the risk of infection.

With my mind on both flesh-gnawing fish and syllabi, I am reminded of John Donne’s “The Flea.”

 

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,

How little that which thou deniest me is;

It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,

And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;

Thou know’st that this cannot be said

A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead,

 Yet this enjoys before it woo,

    And pampered swells with one blood made of two,

    And this, alas, is more than we would do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where we almost, nay more than married are.

This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;

Though parents grudge, and you, w’are met,

And cloistered in these living walls of jet.

    Though use make you apt to kill me,

    Let not to that, self-murder added be,

    And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since

Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?

Wherein could this flea guilty be,

Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?

Yet thou triumph’st, and say’st that thou

Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now;

    ’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:

    Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me,

    Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.

I wonder then, in the parts of the world where fish pedicures are practiced, are the Garra rufa like Donne’s flea, mingling the dead skin cells of strangers in their bellies in a way that some might say is like an act of love? Are the poor souls (my apologies for the pun) who accidentally dip their toes into tubs of Chinchin fish anything like Donne’s seventeenth-century young couple? There is no lover in these spas, I guess, only the starving fish pedicurers and the rough feet of the pedicurees, but the grotesque intimacy is there.

And as I edit this post and fidget with all of the open tabs on my computer, I receive an email from one of the journals I sent my essay to. A rejection. My words squashed between the fingers of an editor.

Only ninety-nine more to go.