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January 30, 2006
The Asian Invasion Begins
If you were a 23 year old performer who had been performing to sellout crowds across Asia after promising your dying mother that you would become the best singer in the world, you may be tempted to rest on your laurels. Go on an exotic vacation to Bali. Take some time off on a yacht in the Mediterranean. Maybe, if you wanted to feel particularly productive, you could have someone ghostwrite your personal Cinderella tale.
Or, you could decide to conquer the American music market and spend your days studying English, Japanese, and Chinese, practicing your singing and dancing incessantly, jumping rope 2000 times a day, reading up on American history and culture, and finishing your university degree in postmodern music via correspondence. You have more time to do all this, of course, because you don't party, smoke, or drink.
And, even after all this, you could still brace yourself for failure:
"In the case that my music is not loved by the American people, I will work very hard to fix things and hope to please them the next time."
Rain, the twenty-three year old South Korean pop star, is doing just that. His first English-language album is projected for release in October when, according to his producer, he is will have achieved basic English fluency and be ready to incite palpitations in thousands of American female hearts.
Is America ready for a self-flagellating, disciplined, and eager-to-please Asian superstar? This is, after all, a whole lot of culture to cross.
Posted by elissa at 01:33 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
January 27, 2006
Grace in the Sink
I have clean dishes.
Before you doubt my homemaking skills, let me assure you that this is not a rare state of affairs. But, I've been recovering from a bug all week -- coming home from work and crashing into bed -- and having clean dishes was among the greatest things I could hope for and the least things that I expected. Yet, at the week's end, I toddle about the house, surveying the inevitable clutter of a week's build-up, but having an empty sink and full cabinets.
Sometimes, it is in the must mundane and unextraordinary ways that we are Christ to those closest to us. Those clean dishes are Noel making grace seen and believed for me.
Posted by elissa at 11:32 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
January 25, 2006
My Anticipated Reading List
Despite missing a day at work due to a hateful stomach bug, I'm almost through with my first round of conferences with Freshmen Composition students. While I do enjoy lecturing, the opportunity to discuss ideas on an individual basis is especially fun for me. It's exciting to sit down with a scribbled freewrite and then pull out some valuable idea that can be expanded into an engaging piece of academic prose; I feel like we're pulling rabbits out of hats.
A digression-filled draft about a community peanut festival has now been redirected to an exploration of being both an "insider" and an "outsider" in a small southern town. Sprawling musings on soccer, cooking, and art have are now contributing to a thoughtful piece on perfectionism and quitting. I'll be reading essays on performance anxiety, meeting a spouse on the internet, running as an emotional vent, the juxtapositions of brokenness and prosperity in a Nebraskan town, the unexpected difficulties of being a first semester freshmen, slowly growing apart from a longtime roommate, developing a character as an actress, wrestling with the effects of living cross-culturally... and more. One student told me, "I didn't think I was smart enough to write about something like that." "It was your idea to start with," I replied. And it was true. She had just needed help recognizing the value of something already embedded in her own experience.
In my weakened state, I'm tempted to slide off into trite-but-raputurous exclamations like, "It will all be worth it if even one student learns to be a little more self-reflective." We'll hold off the party until I have twenty-two writing portfolios in my possession. But, right now, I want these ideas to become coherent, engaging, confident writing that appeals to varied audiences. I'm excited to show students how they can set their own ideas and stories into broader, more meaningful contexts. And I am very glad, indeed, that I (still) have this job.
Posted by elissa at 02:21 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
An Illustrated Timeline
An illustrated timeline of my feelings about applying to graduate school, from October 2005 to the present:
Posted by elissa at 02:15 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
January 23, 2006
Curiously Multi-Purpose
I can't throw Altoid tins away.
It's not like I eat them that often, but my life is still full of empty Altoid tins. They're so... sturdy. So... vintage. They practically have "use me for cooler things!" emblazoned inside their lids. I am dismally unoriginal in my use of an Altoid tin as a jewelry box. Another tin holds words and phrases I've clipped from magazines to use in assorted craft projects. One is a ubiquitous bobby pin holder. I keep one of the long, thin tins from the "sugar free smalls" as a little treasure box of fortune cookie fortunes. I clung to a round "sours" tin for far too long, even though the melted, citrusy goo inside made it unusable.
So it's good to know, really, that the uses for Altoid tins are apparently limitless. If you have time enough and skill, you can transform your tin into a light-based theremin, "an electronic musical instrument whose pitch is determined by the amount of light it detects." Whoa. The geekier among us have transformed their tins into protective cases for mp3 players, switches from pc speakers to headphones, and a Morse code transmitter. Even better? You can learn how to make some of these projects yourself on makezine.com's blog. I'm particularly entranced by the pinhole camera, though, again, the nerds in our lives may be more excited about recharging all their USB devices with an attractive minty-scented 9V charger.
As nifty as all of these transformed tins are, I have to admit that I'm particularly impressed by someone who simply used their tin to store stuff. Granted, this guy is storing enough stuff to help you survive for 72 hours, providing "for shelter preparation, fire making, water storage and treatment, signaling capability, basic medical needs and food procurement."
I feel like Altoid consumption has a whole new legitimacy now. Plus, since Altoids are making a new home in Chattanooga, it may easily be argued that large-scale consumption of these curiously strong little tablets is in my community's own economic interest. I may never make my own Altoid fish tank, but it's nice to know that the possibiltiy exists.
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Someday, I wouldn't mind having...
... a book bar.
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January 19, 2006
Eschewing Sequins and Other Fashion Pleas
Dear American female shopper,
It is January. You may have noticed that spring and summer collections are beginning to creep onto the shelves and racks of your favorite retailers. You may have seen the glossy fashion magazines next to the check out at Wal-Mart and skimmed through their lists of "New Spring Trends For 2006." This is all good and well. After all, remaining publically clothed is generally considered the wisest course of action, and it is less painful for all involved if said garments do not obscenely scream, "I was very fashionable thirty years ago!"
But, I must admit that I am concerned.
I want you to be careful, dear shopper, when you enter stores this spring. The force of fashion is a powerful one to reckon with. She has a nasty streak, and she is not above proclaiming something to be tasteful when, in fact, history has already proven otherwise. So she keeps, for another season, these inexplicable garments on shelves and runways, hoping to lure you.
Beware of the tiered skirt that falls uncomfortably between knee and ankle. The crinkles, the awkward length, the ungainly fabrics and patterns...all resurrect painful images of being a homeschooler in the early 90's.
Turn your eyes away from the oversized golden handbag. No one is exactly sure what strange substance it is actually made of, plus it commits the further unpardonable sin of festooning itself with tassles and metallic chain.
While you're at it, eschew the Victorian lace-up boots that have again been deemed romantic and feminine. Not only will you waste valuable time each morning roping yourself into this contraption, but you may also feel the need to adopt the accent of a British governess and take tea at 4.
Most crocheted items, too, might be best left in our past. A crocheted shrug is really little more than a creepy embrace from a slinky version of that afghan your grandmother made for you.
Finally, dear shopper, repeat after me: I will not be addicted to sequins. You do not need to look like you are becoming a mermaid, you do not need glowing, glittering shoulders, and you definitely need not feel under compulsion to fashion your purse after a prism.
Now, intrepid shopper, walk into those houses of merchandise informed and equipped. Peer, unmoved, over your aviator glasses, turn smartly away in your ballerina flats, and be free.
Posted by elissa at 02:05 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
January 17, 2006
Another Revolutionary
The idea came from Warhol: bestow the four longest standing faculty of the English Department with pop icon status. After all, at Covenant, they *are* our common, popular culture.
Unexpectedly, but perhaps even more wonderfully, the rest of the professors in the building are reading the potraits as stemming from the propaganda posters of Che Guevara. Oh, blessed postmodern art criticism that allows for the best interpretation to spring from the viewers, rather than the artist.
(Once we get these "squared" in carpentry and paint a fat black border around them, they'll be hung. They'll look sweet. And you will get another picture of them all together.)
Posted by elissa at 05:10 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
Race Without Food
Yesterday's remarks by New Orleans' Mayor, Ray Nagin, got me thinking.
I love food. I love cooking it, I love eating it, I love discussing it, and I love writing about it. But I'm wondering if, after all, there is one area where food should just stay out of the discussion: race metaphors.
There is practically an entire genre of esculent imagery for racial identity. An "oreo" is someone who is black on the outside but "acts white." "Bananas" are those who appear Asian, but act white. "Eggs" are the opposite: white folk who act "yellow." A Native American who has lost touch with his or her ethnic identity is an "apple." Red and yellow black and white...
It's not that all food-inspired, race-related terms are necessarily pejorative. Caucasians may refer to themselves as having a "whitebread" upbringing or value set. Blacks may call themselves "chocolate." Sometimes, the edible analogies are intended to create a helpful picture of racial harmony. America may be called the "melting pot," a big vat of fondue that has mixed cheeses, wine, and spices into a smooth, rich mixture of indistinguishable parts. Sometimes, our country is instead termed a "mixed salad," where distinct ingredients are tossed together to form a single dish. Some, dissatisfied even with this, dream of an "ethnic stew," where ingredients maintain particularities while contributing to the greater, complex flavor of the whole.
It's strange how food plays a hugely important role in creating cultural and ethnic identity, and yet it fails so miserably when applied analogically to race relations. In the case of oreos, eggs, bananas, and apples, the metaphors mash the intricate, multi-layered tapestries of personality, upbringing, and other influences into a single, flat tone. Certain interests, actions, and preferences are equated with a color which, in turn, supposedly represents a racial or ethnic group. Such sweeping generalizations and simplistic renderings of what it means to "be Asian" or to "be black," color coded like a paint-by-numbers worksheet, can hardly be helpful when unpacking something so historically and emotionally charged. It is a telling irony that though invisible flavors are the primary distinguishing characteristic of different foods, it is color that gets the attention in our culinary, racial imagery.
Even those well-meaning metaphors, meant to assist in teaching multiculturalism, reveal deep set ideas about race relations. The "melting pot" image seems to spring from idealist, post-Enlightenment beliefs in the harmonizing power of democracy. It has been criticized for merely emphasizing cultural integration into the dominant group, expecting those from radically different cultures to be absorbed into the mainstream. The "toss salad" concept, on the other hand, perhaps places too much of an emphasis on the distinctives. In the analogy's own terms, one may ask, "Who gets to make the dressing to keep it all together?" Even the "ethnic stew," a new favorite among multiculturalists, breaks down relatively quickly. After all, not all ingredients meld well together.
Imagery can be a powerful, helpful tool for explaining difficult concepts. It makes the abstract concrete and provides a familiar context for uncovering new ideas. I do wonder, then, why our attempts to relate race, ethnicity, and cultural heritage to food have proven at best one-dimensional and at worst actually hurtful. Perhaps part of the problem lies in insistence on limiting our explanations to visual observations. I don't have a solution, but perhaps we would do well to start tasting.
Posted by elissa at 05:05 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
January 13, 2006
It's Trying to Push Right Through My Skin
It stings to see how sin affects even personal grief. It perpetuates a lie of guilt, telling you that you have little right to feel so hurt. What is your loss in comparison to others'? It attempts to downplay the wrongness of death by swallowing the ache of the "already" into the good promises of the "not yet." It insists on noise and busyness, threatening that silence and stillness is simply indulgence.
The juxtapositions of life and loss are especially jolting when you're far away from the rest who are grieving together. Surrounded by those who do not know or who cannot participate in your mourning, the weight of normalcy presses hard. It's hard to keep running when, 5000 miles away, the lives of those dearest to you have been temporarily suspended in order to hurt.
But praise Jesus for freedom, found in grace, to ache while still believing.
Posted by elissa at 05:16 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
January 12, 2006
Today My Heart is Big and Sore
Late last night my brother woke me up with the news that my Aunty Gayle -- my mom's sister -- had suddenly collapsed, been rushed to the emergency room, gone into cardiac arrest twice, and was now in the ICU.
Early this morning, my mom called to tell me that Aunty didn't make it.
Aunty Gayle not only allowed, but occasionally enabled and encouraged me to try things that otherwise would have never crossed my conservative, reserved psyche. One of my earliest memories of this influence is also among my fondest. When I was four, Aunty helped me make a necklace as a Christmas present for my mom. After our huge, hand-rolled, clay beads had dried, Aunty brought out the paint. I think I wanted to paint the beads pink and white. After all, my mom wore only the smallest, subtlest jewelry and chose subdued tones for her wardrobe. “No,” Aunty said, squeezing out colors, “let’s do something louder.”
We painted them bright, canary yellow with crimson polka-dots.
It barely seems real, yet. Please pray for my mom, for her dad, for her other sister and brother, and especially for Michael, Aunty Gayle's teenaged son who is now alone. And pray for Josh and myself, too, as we hurt and long to be with our family.
in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge,
till the storms of destruction pass by. . .
God will send out his steadfast love and his faithfulness!
- Psalm 57:1, 3
Posted by elissa at 12:45 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
January 11, 2006
And the Beat Goes On
Three down, one more to go.
Dr. Hesselink has faithfully made a trek down to the Writing Center every day this week to check on his progress. He'll stop in front of the painting, nod his head a bit, and then talk to us.
I told him he looked retro.
"I'm a retro guy," he replied, walking away.
In other news, Dr. Foreman was spotted showing off his portrait to Dr. Lambert. "I'm not sure if it's my color," he told me. I assured him that he looked quite fine.
Posted by elissa at 04:51 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
January 10, 2006
A Preference of Proportion
In "Prolegomena to a Psychology of Architecture," the art and architecture historian Heinrich Wolfflin concludes:
Therefore, the golden section with its proportion between restful matter and ascending force perhaps presents an average measure conforming to man. In fact, I think I have observed that thin people, constantly on the move, generally prefer slender proportions, while strong, stocky people select the opposite.
Wolfflin believed that psychology played a primary role in understanding and appreciating architecture, and he tightly connected "bodily habit" with "favored proportion." When I read his "Prolegomena," I felt that I had been intellectually vindicated.
You see, I am five foot nine, I have just passed the minimum weight requirement for donating blood... and I like tall, thin things.
I first remember this self-mirroring preference manifesting itself in my freshmen year art classes. My professor looked at my magnified, Georgia O'Keefe-esque painting of an anthurium, looked at me, and then rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. It showed up everywhere in drawing class. Objects in still life arrangements stretched upwards, bottles growing disproportionately long necks and the folds of fabric curving slowly and langorously. Even the cow skull was smoothly pulled into a longer, narrower form. One self-portrait I drew -- framing my neck and collarbone -- boasted proportions that would have made Parmigianino proud. We called my drawing "Elissa with the Long Neck" in honor of Pargmigianino's Mannerist masterpiece. Though I managed to dampen this unwitting elongation in my later paintings, hints still remained.
Sometimes, I wonder if it's getting worse. Our wedding invitations and programs were long and thin. Even our Christmas letter this year squeezed into a narrow, vertical format. When Noel and I are on walks together, I run to stand among the tall, swaying grass, and point out the tallest, thinnest buildings as my favorites. Friends buy me tall, thin gifts: panoramic picture frames, narrow-necked vases, and ridiculously long scarves.
According to Wolfflin, though, I can't help it. This...strong preference...for things of lengthier proportions is simply and understandably a function of my psychology. So, maybe we can go ahead and get this light sometime soon...
Posted by elissa at 12:02 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
January 06, 2006
I Just Got Served...by Owen Wilson
Accompanied by our valuable gift certificate, Noel and I celebrated our first anniversary at Southside Grill last night. Since it was a Thursday night, business was quiet, and much of the dining area had been partitioned off, creating a smaller, intimate space for the sprinkling of customers. We were seated at a back table, near four other couples, all of whom had a good forty or so years on us.
And then, he appeared. "He" being Owen Wilson.
Well, if not Owen himself, then a man who bore a striking resemblance to the actor. Not the splitting image, mind you, but he possessed all salient features, from the small eyes and narrow nose to the lanky frame and wavy blond hair. He said something to us, some pleasantry, some polite inquiry, but I comprehended nothing. He sounded like Owen Wilson as well. The nasal tone, the pauses...it was all there.
It was beyond distracting.
Perhaps the actor Owen Wilson is a sophisticated and polite conversationalist off-screen, but his onscreen persona and the calm, deferential demeanor of this waiter tussled incongruently in my mind. The Southside Owen drifted about the room, materializing silently when needed with a crooked smile. I heard Owen discussing gourmet pizza with a woman enveloped in a salmon-colored shawl. He expounded knowledgably on a wine he was pouring at another table. He had a delightful exchange with the couple seated right next to us:
"I'd like to have this boxed up, please," the older gentlemen requested.
"Of course, sir."
"And the bone too. But in a different box. It's for our neighbor's dog."
Politely laughing, Owen replied, "Oh, you don't have to explain."
"But it's the truth," inserted the older but still sprightly wife. "If he doesn't give that dog a bone, it'll bite!"
Secretly, I was a little disappointed. The real Owen would have said something grossly inappropriate and hugely funny at that moment. I mean, I wanted to chime in, "Cool story, Hansel." Still, this Owen was a real charmer. That same lady was celebrating her birthday, and Owen promised to do something special for it. "Do you think he'll put a sombrero on her head, sing happy birthday, and then spray whip cream in her face?" I asked Noel. He patted my hand gently and told me "no."
He was right. "Special" meant adding a candle to the sorbet. No song. No dance. And yet, when the lady expressed her relief at the lack of hubbabaloo, I thought I detected a hint of regret when Owen replied, "No, they won't let us sing."
Somehow, this made me feel more at peace with the entire situation. We left Owen a nice tip.
Posted by elissa at 02:14 PM | Comments (10) | TrackBack
January 05, 2006
Despite What Rolling Stone Says, 2005 Was Not Necessarily the Worst Year Ever
(according to Noel and Elissa)
Best Choice: To get married.
Best Day: December 30, 2004
Greatest Domestic Accomplishment: Elissa assembling our 7' tall bookshelves armed only with a cordless drill.
Greatest Home Improvement Moment: Noel daring to take apart the kitchen sink...and then getting it all back together.
Greatest Feline Feat: Slaying three cockroaches in a single night.
Languages of the Year: German and C#.
Greatest Technological Discovery of the Year: With the right connections, you can download full-length European soccer matches. Whoa.
Greatest Creative Inspiration of the Year: The Professor Series.
Greatest Number of People We've Fed in Our Home at a Single Time: 16.
Average Number of Mouths Fed for Sunday Suppers: 9.
Best Road Trip in the Jetta TDI: Charlottesville, VA
Best Mileage in the Jetta TDI: 52 mpg.
Albums of the Year: (meaning albums that we both liked and sang along to, constantly) Picaresque, by the Decemberists and Drunkard's Prayer, by Over the Rhine
Movie of the Year: Life Aquatic & March of the Penguins
Soccer Game of the Year: UEFA Champions League Final, AC Milan vs. Liverpool
We've had our first year, and we've had it with style.
Posted by elissa at 02:08 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
January 03, 2006
I Meet the (Horned) Frog of My Dreams
On our way back from Hawaii, we stopped to spend a few days with Noel's family in Ardmore and Houston. Since they're good, mid-western folks, football was in order.
On something of a whim, we went to the Ev1.net Houston Bowl at Reliant Stadium on Saturday. Before the game, we debated the delicate trick of picking a team to call our own. Should we cheer for Texas Christian because they had beaten the Weichbrodt's beloved Sooners, and a win from TCU would make OU look better? Or should we cheer for Iowa State to spite TCU?
In the end, I decided that my lynchpin would be an aesthetic one. If TCU has a sweet horned frog running up and down the sideline, I said, I'll cheer for them.
We arrived at the game and took our seats: field level behind the end zone, the no fan's land. Our neighbors were predominantly clad in purple, but a renegade Iowa fan or two yelled loudly enough to occasionally make you believe you were sitting amid the red and gold of the Cyclones. I looked at the sidelines.
Both sides sported cheerleaders and bands, but Iowa State also had a guy in a cardinal suit lumbering about. I peered down the opposing sideline, through the pond of purple. No frog. Oh well, Iowa State has a better band anyway, I decided.
But things changed at the beginning of the third. Suddenly, a purple jersey-clad, gray foam endowed frog with bulging eyes and stumpy horns was galloping along the field. And then, moments later, he was in the stands among the Texas Christian faithful. His assorted horns protruding from elbows and uniform and his gray-gloved hand produced a perpetual mini horned frog. He looked like a Japanese cartoon character. I wiggled my "kawaii" finger at him.
And then, suddenly, he was in our section, shaking hands with Zach and Noel. The camera was out and ready, but I was overcome by celebrity-awe. Thankfully, my gracious husband asked Superfrog to pose for a picture with me. He threw up the mini-frog and obliged.
Can you be a fan of the mascot without being a fan of the school?
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When the Beach is a Spectator Sport
No, we didn't hit the slopes in Hawaii.
Winter brings hefty swells to the North Shore. Twenty-five foot faces are a relatively common -- but still noteworthy and fondly-witnessed -- occasion. The day after Christmas, Noel, my brothers, and I piled into the minivan and drove up through central Oahu, between the Koolau and Waianae ranges, past the old pineapple and cane fields, and up the two-lane road that borders the coastline. We arrived at Waimea Bay by 9, but we were tardy amateurs compared to the rope of photographers, surfers, and area residents that lined the road leading down and past the bay. Some were peering through cameras with 18 inch-long lenses perched on sturdy tripods, looking like incongruous astronomers who had trained their telescopes on the sea.
Continue reading "When the Beach is a Spectator Sport"
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