Here I sit in Rochester
September 3, 2010
Here I sit in my Rochester bedroom with most of my walls decorated just as I wanted them although the vacant wall along my bed only reminds me that there is so much more to define me here.
Excitement is in everything I see here. I am moved. The river is nothing like what I expected. Stories of the Kodak pollution and fish getting caught in iced over waters did not prepare me for the Genesee. The trees are diverse in kind and plentiful. They intimately hug the river although they tease because I have no delusions of a green winter. I really appreciate the buildings on campus and around town. And these will still be attractive when the snow falls which is a sight I look forward to.
Last night was my first try at the traditional role of debate coach. It was both a relieving experience and a terrifying one. I think I rushed into the practice and then again through my adjudication to deflect attention from me onto the debaters. Couldn’t let anyone notice my increasing heart rate or nervous gestures. The important part is that it was the kind of round I expected with all that summer dust. We’ve all got to study the art more but I am extremely hopeful about this season. Especially (!) with the coaching staff that I get to work with. I can see some differences between us already but none of them worry me – not to say I’m not nervous. They have been great about recognizing the “outside” feelings or impressions that I may be strapped with now or in the near future.
The possibilities for the debate team’s growth and my own personal betterment is inexplicably there. Writing is still hard. I’ve already walked away from this document a few times to read my book, try to regain control and then grab some more confidence. It’s ironic for the book I am reading, Loose Girl by Kerry Cohen. It is Kerry’s terribly depressing memoir about her promiscuous and needy youth. Addiction to male attention is, I think, I prevalent but hushed problem among high school and college girls today. Awareness of my own addiction helped me pick up this book but I’m disappointed so far in the ratio of memoir details to reflective analysis. Still, it takes all kinds and I’ve yet to finish the book. I’ve also been sneaking peeks at Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within. This is a terrifying book to me which explains my lack of progress through such a tiny volume. I’m too honest to read something like this seriously but not delve into writing with everything I’ve got. So… I nibble. I was reading Junot Diaz’s Drown but I felt as though too much was lost when I couldn’t understand the Spanish so I’ve set it aside for now. On payday I will waltz into my new Barnes and Noble and buy the used copy of bell hook’s Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center which I have selfishly set aside on the book shelf so that it will get the least attention possible.
I must say that I realized the importance of books in my life when I packed my small library up in Queens. I forced myself to give away about a dozen books but to do so responsibly. I gave away what I felt could be really appreciated and tried to match topics with the interests of my friends. This means I reluctantly passed along a few of my beloved novels. However a good friend taught me this summer that a story shared is richer.
One of the most important differences between my life in New York City and Rochester is that I’m not dating anyone. This, I think, is going to be an integral part my reflection and pedagogical development. So much energy is invested in that kind of an Other and for those of us who are notorious for our inability to date casually (the Passionates who throw the entirety of ourselves into everything we do) being single is often necessary albeit scary.
These are my words.