Bethalou

A minute ago, while sitting in the bathroom, I became so enraged rehashing this week’s Concordia Conservatives article. I often find that thinking angry thoughts aids in “gastronomical events” (thanks Dad). Anyway, the article quoted a young lady who finds herself “wanting to cry and throw up” at academic discussions of cross-dressing and gender fluidity. Young lady! You’re a bigot! I hope you know that. You can see, sadly that I’ve lost my steam.

Because I’m listening to Prairie Home Companion. How pissed can I be listening to bluegrass and Garrison’s tentative croonings? I really feel that I should, on behalf of the GLTB community, be fiery and tenacious in a scalding excoriation of this young lady. But. Garrison. I’ll give it up for now.

Today there was a short blizzard.

Everyone should listen to this show.

What if I don’t want to teach anybody anything? What if I’m bad at teaching? All the signs point to this. I talk in circles and am often inarticulate. I had difficulty eliciting responses from students last time I taught. What if I ask questions that are too difficult? Am I supposed to dumb them down? What if my whole career is spent going through the agonizing cycle, year after year, of dragging freshmen step by painful step from “I know everything” to “Maybe I don’t know everything”? That’s a crucial step, yes, but to do it over and over and over, each year getting more frustrated by stupidity, arrogance, and apathy. And the reading. The grading of horrible papers. The circling and the underlining and the agonizing obligatory endnotes. Freshmen.

Are these doubts indicating that I should not pursue teaching? I should talk to Duncan about this.