Aaron and I have different philosophies when it comes to maintaining our respective Facebook friend lists. He keeps his trim, between 100 and 200 people; he cleans up his list every few months or so, eliminating people he doesn't interact with frequently. He also seems to be in a relatively constant state of annoyance with the whole idea of Facebook and grumbles about its very existence.
I am more of a friend hoarder: if I've had more than passing contact with you, or we were at one time friends, you're probably on my friends list. If we're related, you're there. If we went to school together, had a class together, or worked together (or if you worked with Aaron), you're there. If you're friends with one or both of my parents and have managed to figure out the Facebook, you're probably on my list. This isn't to say I have a lot of friends, or that I'm outgoing. I just don't see much harm in adding people that, for one reason or another, were part of my life at one time.
Some of my Facebook friends are people I met ONCE, at a party or through mutual friends. Others are people that I happened to sit next to in a lecture hall (Hi, Lindsay!) or met in a theory course, and I have grown to know them better in the intervening years, through Facebook, than I did while we were in the class together. And I think that's kind of awesome.
But having more Facebook friends means that there's more of Facebook to consume: more stories in your feed, more pithy quotes, more images, more links to interesting (or frightening) websites, etc. In an election year, that has the potential to ruin your entire image of a person. I find myself asking Oh my, how did I not know this about you? or Really? That's how you feel? Because I remember you being far less hateful when we were friends in sixth grade.
I've often heard that if you want to ruin a dinner party (or a friendship), bring up politics or religion. I always thought that admonition required a certain level of mistrust for the maturity level of the conversing parties, because COME ON, WE'RE ALL ADULTS HERE. But an election-year Facebook newsfeed, overflowing with the ideas of the people I have chosen to associate with, makes me reconsider.
Recently, I unfriended someone after I couldn't stand his incessant, hateful, bigotry-laden political posts on Facebook. It wasn't that I couldn't handle seeing the views of someone I disagreed with--it was more that there was active disrespect, the hands on the hips stance of "This is how I feel, and I'm right, and you're stupid if you think otherwise." I grew tired of this person calling me (and unseen others like me) a moron for disagreeing, before I even had a chance to formulate a response. Did I believe I was a moron? No. But I also felt like he wasn't interested in a conversation with someone like me, so there was no point in remaining Facebook friends with him. He can keep having his screaming match with the world somewhere else--but not on my newsfeed.
I've become more mindful of my own political posts on Facebook. While I don't want to actively disrespect people who have chosen to include me among their "friends," I'm also quite passionate about a number of subjects and I'd really like to share my ideas and start a conversation. That's the key to it--I want a conversation. I can do without the one-sided, mean-spirited bullying, the name-calling, the moral and intellectual superiority complexes that come with voting a certain way or supporting a certain party or candidate. I want to talk about actual issues and ideas, not rehash talking points or shout at each other.
Facebook doesn't always foster that, though, because it feels safe and anonymous (even though your name is attached to it). The screen adds distance, but not necessarily perspective. People (and I'm talking about grown adults, many of whom have attended college or grad school and who know how to use their critical thinking skills) don't always think of the arguments they are making about themselves by posting, sharing, or commenting on something, because a series of mouse clicks or screen taps or keystrokes makes it so easy to megaphone your ideas, unbidden, into the world. Being able to click that you "Like" something is easy; being able to rationally explain why you like it takes work.
I'm not saying I want people to censor themselves, because it would be selfish and unrealistic for me to even suggest something like that. I'm not saying I want it to stop. I also acknowledge that by logging into Facebook, I bring it upon myself. That's okay.
I also figure that most of my friends (Facebook and otherwise) already have a pretty good idea of my political leanings, either from conversations we've had or articles I've shared or comments I've made. I guess I just don't always trust myself to be above the self-righteous sniping I see on every comments section of every article I read online. So, I hesitate before sharing. I don't share 90% of the things I'd like to, and part of me feels like I'm cheating myself out of a real conversation.
The ease of using Facebook (and Twitter, which I am not part of and probably won't join unless forced) as a personal soapbox has made the world a little smaller, but also a little uglier. We all have political opinions, as well as deeply held personal values, that might seem ridiculous or offensive to other people. It's the seeming anonymity of social networking that turns what used to be an inner monologue or a face-to-face conversation into a deluge of publicly shared information.
That's what makes Facebook entertaining and addictive, but also dangerous: we are able to carve out an online self, represented through words and images, with quite a bit of power over selecting these details. It can be done with care, but I can also be come an exercise in self-congratulatory aggrandizement. Our ideas are out there, instantly, and people we know (or don't know) can interact with them. This might lead to some feelings of self-importance: My ideas are out there. My ideas matter. My opinion matters. All the time. (And yes, I realize the irony of saying this via the personal blog I have maintained since January, writing about the things that matter to me, and which I post links for on Facebook. I'm holding a mirror up to myself with this one.)
What's my point? Keep posting, keep sharing, put your ideas out there--but also be willing to talk to each other, with respect and civility. Be open to the ideas of others. Know that your way isn't the only way, it's not necessarily the right way, and even if it is, things might not turn out that way.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Book Report 2
I know I haven't written in a long time. And that I haven't even finished my posts about India. And that I've written almost nothing about what we've done this summer. And that I haven't said how my new job is going. Those posts are coming. Eventually. But for now, I think I can manage a post about the books I've read since April's book report post.
17. The Little Friend by Donna Tartt
I first encountered Donna Tartt's work when I picked up The Secret History at (surprise!) a library book sale back when we were living in Mt. Pleasant. Since The Secret History still reigns as one of my favorite books ever, I thought I would give The Little Friend a try. The book started with so much promise: it seemed to offer insight into one family's struggles to deal with the aftermath of a horrible tragedy (the death of a child); plus, it was set in rural Mississippi in the late 1960's/early 1970's, so there was a lot of compelling cultural context available.
I felt I really got to know the main character, Harriet, and her best friend Hely; I felt like I saw what their summer was like in Mississippi. I appreciated how the plot reflected the mindset and thought processes of a moody adolescent girl desperately trying to understand the horrible thing that happened to her family. Tartt's writing was just as imaginative and captivating as I remembered it on a sentence-by-sentence level; at the same time, though, the book was bulky with detail and description that didn't do much to move the plot along.
There were some suspenseful moments that nearly shivered me out of my skin, but mostly because there were so many snakes in the book. Crates of them. Nests of them. Slithery, bitey, poisonous snakes. I had a few nightmares about snakes and drowning from this one. A book like this might be better as an audiobook on a long drive--provided you aren't driving through Mississippi.
18. Ella Minnow Pea by Mark Dunn
Paul Schramm recommended this one to me, and I am so glad I took his suggestion. It's a clever, quick read that demonstrates the importance of having the means and freedom to communicate. The fictional government of the book outlaws the use of specific letters as they fall off the plinth of a statue, taking their falling as a divine proclamation that the letters should no longer be used. The tale is told in letters and messages between several characters, the content of which become increasingly restricted as more letters fall. It's an allegory for the kind of oppression that seems innocuous or just inconvenient at first but soon escalates beyond reason (think Patriot Act or religious dogma). I enjoyed it immensely, thanks to my resentment at government meddling as well as my love of language.
19.-21. The His Dark Materials trilogy by Phillip Pullman
(The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass)
I read The Golden Compass soon after the movie was released, so my initial interpretation of the series was skewed by that. I was anticipating an adventure with realistic but supernatural characters, and I thought it would skew slightly younger in the young adult range. The books, however, are deeper and darker than the movie version suggested, which I really appreciated.
I was in middle/high school when this series was released, and I honestly don't know if I could have handled reading them at that time because of my seriously conflicted feelings towards religion. The books enact the kind of serious critique of religious dogma my teenage mind was desperately trying to articulate and sort out. Add some talking animals, witches, inter-dimensional travel, and theoretical physics, and you get a not necessarily fun but definitely compelling series.
22. The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown
Yeah, sometimes I need to read predictable and formulaic pulp. I will not apologize for it. I just wish professor Robert Langdon (the Tom Hanks character) didn't like to hear himself talk so much, because seriously: dude likes to lecture. He needs to be part of Pedants Anonymous--except that will never exist, because pedants like you to acknowledge their credentials so much.
There's some suspense. There's a creepy villain. There's dismemberment. There's a secret society. There's a pretty girl with her life in danger. Ho hum. It was good bedtime reading because it doesn't take much brain power.
23. Bitter is the New Black by Jen Lancaster
This is an instance where a book's subtitle really sums up what it's about: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smartass,Or, Why You Should Never Carry A Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office. It's a memoir. And even though this woman is supremely bitchy and unlikable, and I found myself reacting out loud every few pages to express disgust with something she had said or done, I still enjoyed it because it was that funny. Some of the humor comes from schadenfreude, it's true, but that's totally excusable in this case. I get so annoyed with ostentatious displays of wealth and people who seriously believe that their money makes them better than everyone else, so it was nice to see one of these women suffer. Although...she got a book published, so I expect things are looking up for her again.
24. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
In the library of my brain, there is a section of required reading for English majors. These shelves are crammed with so-called classics that every self-respecting book nerd or literature lover is supposed to not only have read, but read outside of a classroom setting for pleasure. When I go to this section of my brain, I see disappointment: the English-major staples that I haven't read (Tolstoy and Steinbeck and Joyce), started reading and couldn't finish (Austen), or read all the way through and hated (I've given The Great Gatsby at least five chances and I still hate it).
But To Kill a Mockingbird is on the "You should read this book more often" shelf, because it really is that good. It's rare to find a book that examines race, class, regional culture, family dynamics, and childhood so deftly, and without coming off as sanctimonious or pandering. But it does.
25. and 26. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling
Because sometimes, you need to re-read the Harry Potter books for the millionth time. Usually, I re-read the entire series from start to finish, and I've done that since before the fourth book was released. This means, however, that I've read the first three or four books quite a few times, and the last three only a handful. I watched the last three movies, then read the last two books again, and it actually changed how I felt about the screen version of the series--I felt less cheated by the movies than I had previously done, because I realized that there was no way they could equal what I had built up in my mind from reading the books. Basically, I finally let myself view them as a separate beast altogether.
27. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll
The last time I read these books, I was in eighth or ninth grade. My memory had softened the weirdness of the books somewhat, so that in reading them again I was able to be shocked or startled by the behavior of the characters, the way they spoke to each other, and the violence of some of the plot.
28. World War Z byMax Brooks
Really, really good. It didn't focus too much on the zombies, but rather on how the world dealt with the outbreak and aftermath, which I found fascinating.The greatest success of this book was the way the author made it all seem so plausible. From the beginning, you're forced to accept the premise, and through the first-hand accounts, you see it as a global event that happened.
29. Forrest Gump by Winston Groom
One of the rare instances in which I will say the movie is much, much better than the book. Some of the basic plot elements and a few snippets of dialogue are preserved from page to screen, and for good reason: that's all that was worth taking. The Forrest of the book is an aggressive simpleton rather than a guileless one. There's no charm to the book--it's a series of wild stunts rather than an engaging plot. I think what bothered me most was how racist Forrest was, and that the author's point in doing so was totally obvious: it's somewhat okay for Forrest to hold those views because he's an idiot, but what's your excuse?
30. Pigtopia by Kitty Fitzgerald
I bought this from the Carbondale library book sale, mostly because the cover features an illustration of a young girl holding a pig. At first, I was afraid I couldn't get into the book because the narration seemed to be in a broken dialect that took great effort to decode, since I was reading before bed and my brain was already tired. Once I got through the first few chapters, I realized that the narration alternated between two characters: the subliterate pigman Jack Plum, and Holly Lock, the normal but awkward teenage girl he befriends. With some patience, I grew to love reading the Jack Plum chapters because they were almost poetic in the inventiveness of the language. I was conscious of the effort it took Fitzgerald to render Jack's voice, and she did so with unmistakeable style. Had the entire book taken place from Jack's perspective, it would have been a chore to read; Holly's chapters provided breaks but also served as a contrast to the way Jack's mind worked.
31. Stardust, 7-Eleven, Route 57, A&W, and So Forth by Patricia Lear
This was another Carbondale library book sale purchase, and I am sad to say that the title was the best part of this short story collection. The stories were absolutely boring, and not in a way that seemed intentional or for greater effect--it was just that nothing happened in them. I only finished out of stubbornness, so I could tell myself I had read it, given it a fair chance, and was disappointed not because I expected anything great but because I expected anything at all.
I'm glad I only paid 25 cents for the book. Perhaps there was one moment in one story that was worth the price.
32. The Road by Cormac McCarthy
I'm counting this as having been read, even though I listened to it as an audiobook on my Evansville commute. It's a strange book to listen to, driving alone through thick fog between Harrisburg and Eldorado and the long (and sparsely populated) stretch between route 45 and Mt. Vernon, Indiana. The book is so unapologetic, bleak, and lonely. I've long enjoyed post-apocalyptic stories because one of my frequent daydreams involves having the entire world to myself for a few days, a week, a month. What would it be like to be truly alone? Would your mind create noise to fill the absence of all that outer noise that comes from other people?
It was heartbreaking to imagine a young child having a constant awareness of his own mortality, and to imagine a father who's forced to fight for a life that holds little promise. The man and the boy remain nameless throughout the book, which hammered home the truth: that identity is so largely dependent upon belonging to a group and having a relationship with the human world. When that's gone, the self becomes an almost ridiculous idea.
The Road made me rethink my definitions of tragedy and horror. When large numbers of people are killed by disease or disaster, we think of it as a horrific event. We can count the dead and mourn them. It would seem that a global disease pandemic or large-scale environmental catastrophe or nuclear disaster would be the ultimate tragedy, but The Road proves otherwise: that the real horror could be surviving the event, left to figure out a reason for living when civilization is just a memory. The book was definitely worth the horrible nightmares I had.
33. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
Before I started reading this, I knew the basics: a 14-year-old girl is murdered; one of her suburban neighbors is a suspect; it takes place in the 1970s. All this I learned from seeing the trailer for the movie adaptation of the book a few years ago. What I missed, however, was the central idea that the the victim, Susie Salmon, is telling her story from her version of "heaven." I was instantly skeptical about how much I would enjoy reading it, based on the plot and the premise, because this could have gone horribly wrong. Instead, I found myself mostly buying into it. Sure, there are some cringe-inducing moments (particularly in how Susie's presence is made known among the living at times). I'd say I was engaged with the narrative 80% of the time, for the first 80% of the book. The last bit, however, went everywhere I hoped it wouldn't and became a bit too sentimental.
I am curious about how the movie version handles some aspects of the book, though, because it seems so internal, which doesn't always translate without a voice-over (and that often seems like a cop-out).
17. The Little Friend by Donna Tartt
I first encountered Donna Tartt's work when I picked up The Secret History at (surprise!) a library book sale back when we were living in Mt. Pleasant. Since The Secret History still reigns as one of my favorite books ever, I thought I would give The Little Friend a try. The book started with so much promise: it seemed to offer insight into one family's struggles to deal with the aftermath of a horrible tragedy (the death of a child); plus, it was set in rural Mississippi in the late 1960's/early 1970's, so there was a lot of compelling cultural context available.
I felt I really got to know the main character, Harriet, and her best friend Hely; I felt like I saw what their summer was like in Mississippi. I appreciated how the plot reflected the mindset and thought processes of a moody adolescent girl desperately trying to understand the horrible thing that happened to her family. Tartt's writing was just as imaginative and captivating as I remembered it on a sentence-by-sentence level; at the same time, though, the book was bulky with detail and description that didn't do much to move the plot along.
There were some suspenseful moments that nearly shivered me out of my skin, but mostly because there were so many snakes in the book. Crates of them. Nests of them. Slithery, bitey, poisonous snakes. I had a few nightmares about snakes and drowning from this one. A book like this might be better as an audiobook on a long drive--provided you aren't driving through Mississippi.
18. Ella Minnow Pea by Mark Dunn
Paul Schramm recommended this one to me, and I am so glad I took his suggestion. It's a clever, quick read that demonstrates the importance of having the means and freedom to communicate. The fictional government of the book outlaws the use of specific letters as they fall off the plinth of a statue, taking their falling as a divine proclamation that the letters should no longer be used. The tale is told in letters and messages between several characters, the content of which become increasingly restricted as more letters fall. It's an allegory for the kind of oppression that seems innocuous or just inconvenient at first but soon escalates beyond reason (think Patriot Act or religious dogma). I enjoyed it immensely, thanks to my resentment at government meddling as well as my love of language.
19.-21. The His Dark Materials trilogy by Phillip Pullman
(The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass)
I read The Golden Compass soon after the movie was released, so my initial interpretation of the series was skewed by that. I was anticipating an adventure with realistic but supernatural characters, and I thought it would skew slightly younger in the young adult range. The books, however, are deeper and darker than the movie version suggested, which I really appreciated.
I was in middle/high school when this series was released, and I honestly don't know if I could have handled reading them at that time because of my seriously conflicted feelings towards religion. The books enact the kind of serious critique of religious dogma my teenage mind was desperately trying to articulate and sort out. Add some talking animals, witches, inter-dimensional travel, and theoretical physics, and you get a not necessarily fun but definitely compelling series.
22. The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown
Yeah, sometimes I need to read predictable and formulaic pulp. I will not apologize for it. I just wish professor Robert Langdon (the Tom Hanks character) didn't like to hear himself talk so much, because seriously: dude likes to lecture. He needs to be part of Pedants Anonymous--except that will never exist, because pedants like you to acknowledge their credentials so much.
There's some suspense. There's a creepy villain. There's dismemberment. There's a secret society. There's a pretty girl with her life in danger. Ho hum. It was good bedtime reading because it doesn't take much brain power.
23. Bitter is the New Black by Jen Lancaster
This is an instance where a book's subtitle really sums up what it's about: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smartass,Or, Why You Should Never Carry A Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office. It's a memoir. And even though this woman is supremely bitchy and unlikable, and I found myself reacting out loud every few pages to express disgust with something she had said or done, I still enjoyed it because it was that funny. Some of the humor comes from schadenfreude, it's true, but that's totally excusable in this case. I get so annoyed with ostentatious displays of wealth and people who seriously believe that their money makes them better than everyone else, so it was nice to see one of these women suffer. Although...she got a book published, so I expect things are looking up for her again.
24. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
In the library of my brain, there is a section of required reading for English majors. These shelves are crammed with so-called classics that every self-respecting book nerd or literature lover is supposed to not only have read, but read outside of a classroom setting for pleasure. When I go to this section of my brain, I see disappointment: the English-major staples that I haven't read (Tolstoy and Steinbeck and Joyce), started reading and couldn't finish (Austen), or read all the way through and hated (I've given The Great Gatsby at least five chances and I still hate it).
But To Kill a Mockingbird is on the "You should read this book more often" shelf, because it really is that good. It's rare to find a book that examines race, class, regional culture, family dynamics, and childhood so deftly, and without coming off as sanctimonious or pandering. But it does.
25. and 26. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling
Because sometimes, you need to re-read the Harry Potter books for the millionth time. Usually, I re-read the entire series from start to finish, and I've done that since before the fourth book was released. This means, however, that I've read the first three or four books quite a few times, and the last three only a handful. I watched the last three movies, then read the last two books again, and it actually changed how I felt about the screen version of the series--I felt less cheated by the movies than I had previously done, because I realized that there was no way they could equal what I had built up in my mind from reading the books. Basically, I finally let myself view them as a separate beast altogether.
27. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll
The last time I read these books, I was in eighth or ninth grade. My memory had softened the weirdness of the books somewhat, so that in reading them again I was able to be shocked or startled by the behavior of the characters, the way they spoke to each other, and the violence of some of the plot.
28. World War Z byMax Brooks
Really, really good. It didn't focus too much on the zombies, but rather on how the world dealt with the outbreak and aftermath, which I found fascinating.The greatest success of this book was the way the author made it all seem so plausible. From the beginning, you're forced to accept the premise, and through the first-hand accounts, you see it as a global event that happened.
29. Forrest Gump by Winston Groom
One of the rare instances in which I will say the movie is much, much better than the book. Some of the basic plot elements and a few snippets of dialogue are preserved from page to screen, and for good reason: that's all that was worth taking. The Forrest of the book is an aggressive simpleton rather than a guileless one. There's no charm to the book--it's a series of wild stunts rather than an engaging plot. I think what bothered me most was how racist Forrest was, and that the author's point in doing so was totally obvious: it's somewhat okay for Forrest to hold those views because he's an idiot, but what's your excuse?
30. Pigtopia by Kitty Fitzgerald
I bought this from the Carbondale library book sale, mostly because the cover features an illustration of a young girl holding a pig. At first, I was afraid I couldn't get into the book because the narration seemed to be in a broken dialect that took great effort to decode, since I was reading before bed and my brain was already tired. Once I got through the first few chapters, I realized that the narration alternated between two characters: the subliterate pigman Jack Plum, and Holly Lock, the normal but awkward teenage girl he befriends. With some patience, I grew to love reading the Jack Plum chapters because they were almost poetic in the inventiveness of the language. I was conscious of the effort it took Fitzgerald to render Jack's voice, and she did so with unmistakeable style. Had the entire book taken place from Jack's perspective, it would have been a chore to read; Holly's chapters provided breaks but also served as a contrast to the way Jack's mind worked.
31. Stardust, 7-Eleven, Route 57, A&W, and So Forth by Patricia Lear
This was another Carbondale library book sale purchase, and I am sad to say that the title was the best part of this short story collection. The stories were absolutely boring, and not in a way that seemed intentional or for greater effect--it was just that nothing happened in them. I only finished out of stubbornness, so I could tell myself I had read it, given it a fair chance, and was disappointed not because I expected anything great but because I expected anything at all.
I'm glad I only paid 25 cents for the book. Perhaps there was one moment in one story that was worth the price.
32. The Road by Cormac McCarthy
I'm counting this as having been read, even though I listened to it as an audiobook on my Evansville commute. It's a strange book to listen to, driving alone through thick fog between Harrisburg and Eldorado and the long (and sparsely populated) stretch between route 45 and Mt. Vernon, Indiana. The book is so unapologetic, bleak, and lonely. I've long enjoyed post-apocalyptic stories because one of my frequent daydreams involves having the entire world to myself for a few days, a week, a month. What would it be like to be truly alone? Would your mind create noise to fill the absence of all that outer noise that comes from other people?
It was heartbreaking to imagine a young child having a constant awareness of his own mortality, and to imagine a father who's forced to fight for a life that holds little promise. The man and the boy remain nameless throughout the book, which hammered home the truth: that identity is so largely dependent upon belonging to a group and having a relationship with the human world. When that's gone, the self becomes an almost ridiculous idea.
The Road made me rethink my definitions of tragedy and horror. When large numbers of people are killed by disease or disaster, we think of it as a horrific event. We can count the dead and mourn them. It would seem that a global disease pandemic or large-scale environmental catastrophe or nuclear disaster would be the ultimate tragedy, but The Road proves otherwise: that the real horror could be surviving the event, left to figure out a reason for living when civilization is just a memory. The book was definitely worth the horrible nightmares I had.
33. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
Before I started reading this, I knew the basics: a 14-year-old girl is murdered; one of her suburban neighbors is a suspect; it takes place in the 1970s. All this I learned from seeing the trailer for the movie adaptation of the book a few years ago. What I missed, however, was the central idea that the the victim, Susie Salmon, is telling her story from her version of "heaven." I was instantly skeptical about how much I would enjoy reading it, based on the plot and the premise, because this could have gone horribly wrong. Instead, I found myself mostly buying into it. Sure, there are some cringe-inducing moments (particularly in how Susie's presence is made known among the living at times). I'd say I was engaged with the narrative 80% of the time, for the first 80% of the book. The last bit, however, went everywhere I hoped it wouldn't and became a bit too sentimental.
I am curious about how the movie version handles some aspects of the book, though, because it seems so internal, which doesn't always translate without a voice-over (and that often seems like a cop-out).
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Why We're Staying in Marion for Awhile
In my last post, I mentioned that I had a job interview. It turned out not to be an interview so much as a discussion of what I'd like to teach and when I'd be available to do so, given what was offered in the schedule. Thus, I decided to take a (part-time) adjunct teaching position at the University of Southern Indiana in Evansville. It's about 1.5-2 hours from Marion, but I'll be teaching my three classes on a Tuesday/Thursday schedule. I decided spending about eight hours per week in the car was worth getting some actual teaching experience, since all I really have are my years as a graduate assistant, which requires all the work of a real job but offers little of the prestige on the resume. Like I used to tell my students: they were real students receiving real grades, but I wasn't a real teacher.
What initially complicated but ultimately solidified my decision to accept the USI job was that Aaron was called for an interview at the NBC affiliate in Green Bay, Wisconsin the day we had my interview in Evansville. They seemed impressed with his resume and cover letter, and wanted to arrange to fly him up for an in-person interview after an hour-long phone conversation.
All signs, initially, pointed to YES. We would be further north, slightly closer to home, and in a cooler climate. The station was an up-market move and had just become the official station of the Green Bay Packers. It was corportate-owned, which could possibly mean higher pay. I think I may have been more excited than Aaron was about the whole thing. I started daydreaming about wearing sweaters and driving through blizzards. And eating a lot more cheese.
They flew him up to Green Bay (by way of Marion, St. Louis and Chicago) to tour the station, meet everyone, and get interviewed. Aaron's flight from Chicago to Green Bay was cancelled due to storms in Detroit, and while that caused a minor inconvenience on the way there, it was nothing to also having all of his return flights cancelled. But he got there, and met everyone. He toured. He saw Green Bay. He ate at Lambeau Field.
And when he came back home, he had about two days to make a decision. Ultimately, after talking to his coworkers here and discussing it with me, we decided to stick around southern Illinois for awhile longer because it wasn't a good fit. It may have looked great on paper, but the timing wasn't right and Aaron wasn't quite ready to say goodbye to what he's built up here.
Making decisions as a married couple is complicated. He may have been willing to take a job that wasn't quite what he wanted had I said that it was what I really wanted for us. We were willing to consider having him move to Wisconsin while I stayed behind in Marion until my semester of teaching at USI was over in December. Basically, married-couple-decisions are fraught with the notion that you're simultaneously one person and two people, and you have to somehow get your interests/wants/needs to align in such a way that if both people can't be happy, at least one or both won't be miserable, either.
So, we'll be sticking around here awhile longer. Aaron gets to keep the job he loves, and I get to try out being a "real" teacher. We don't know where we'll be a year from now, but up until a few weeks ago, we didn't know where we'd be by the end of July. I'll take this as progress.
What initially complicated but ultimately solidified my decision to accept the USI job was that Aaron was called for an interview at the NBC affiliate in Green Bay, Wisconsin the day we had my interview in Evansville. They seemed impressed with his resume and cover letter, and wanted to arrange to fly him up for an in-person interview after an hour-long phone conversation.
All signs, initially, pointed to YES. We would be further north, slightly closer to home, and in a cooler climate. The station was an up-market move and had just become the official station of the Green Bay Packers. It was corportate-owned, which could possibly mean higher pay. I think I may have been more excited than Aaron was about the whole thing. I started daydreaming about wearing sweaters and driving through blizzards. And eating a lot more cheese.
They flew him up to Green Bay (by way of Marion, St. Louis and Chicago) to tour the station, meet everyone, and get interviewed. Aaron's flight from Chicago to Green Bay was cancelled due to storms in Detroit, and while that caused a minor inconvenience on the way there, it was nothing to also having all of his return flights cancelled. But he got there, and met everyone. He toured. He saw Green Bay. He ate at Lambeau Field.
And when he came back home, he had about two days to make a decision. Ultimately, after talking to his coworkers here and discussing it with me, we decided to stick around southern Illinois for awhile longer because it wasn't a good fit. It may have looked great on paper, but the timing wasn't right and Aaron wasn't quite ready to say goodbye to what he's built up here.
Making decisions as a married couple is complicated. He may have been willing to take a job that wasn't quite what he wanted had I said that it was what I really wanted for us. We were willing to consider having him move to Wisconsin while I stayed behind in Marion until my semester of teaching at USI was over in December. Basically, married-couple-decisions are fraught with the notion that you're simultaneously one person and two people, and you have to somehow get your interests/wants/needs to align in such a way that if both people can't be happy, at least one or both won't be miserable, either.
So, we'll be sticking around here awhile longer. Aaron gets to keep the job he loves, and I get to try out being a "real" teacher. We don't know where we'll be a year from now, but up until a few weeks ago, we didn't know where we'd be by the end of July. I'll take this as progress.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Unhiatusing
You may (or may not) have noticed that I haven't written in awhile--over a month, actually. I haven't felt much like writing lately, which is kind of unfortunate, since that is what I do every day for my job (which actually might explain why I don't feel like writing).
I'll be honest: not much has been happening here. Aaron and I are still applying for jobs. We're both still getting rejections. I have an interview on Monday for a job I can't realistically take, since it's only part-time and it isn't local. I guess it will be practice, since I've done very few interviews in my life and eventually I will need one to go well enough that I get hired.
I've embarked on a small-scale self-improvement project, which means I'm trying to sit on my ass a little less and sweat a little more. I ride my exercise bike while watching documentaries on Netflix because it's too hot to do anything outside. I've only been exercising regularly for a week. I'm trying not to be too hard on myself, though.
Which brings me to my next point: the depressed funk I've been in for a few months hasn't yet lifted. I tried (and failed) to write a post about being depressed. I saw it as a way to help figure out just what the hell my problem is, but it's hard to write about depression without sounding pathetic and trite--and that made me feel worse, somehow. So I never finished the post, and I'm still depressed. Now that I have health insurance, I feel like I might actually have some options if I do choose some kind of treatment, which is a nice change.
I've been reading books. I've hung out with friends a few times. We had people over (a big deal, since we never do that). We went to the bar once or twice. We've driven around the backroads of southern Illinois, looking for nothing in particular and finding interesting stuff, anyway: waterfalls that have run dry, grazing cows in the middle of a wildlife refuge, a small cemetery, hiking trails through rock formations. This week, we even cooked a complete Thanksgiving dinner because we felt like it. We call home too seldom, and haven't visited since March.
Basically, nothing has been happening. Just life. I guess that's enough, though.
I'll be honest: not much has been happening here. Aaron and I are still applying for jobs. We're both still getting rejections. I have an interview on Monday for a job I can't realistically take, since it's only part-time and it isn't local. I guess it will be practice, since I've done very few interviews in my life and eventually I will need one to go well enough that I get hired.
I've embarked on a small-scale self-improvement project, which means I'm trying to sit on my ass a little less and sweat a little more. I ride my exercise bike while watching documentaries on Netflix because it's too hot to do anything outside. I've only been exercising regularly for a week. I'm trying not to be too hard on myself, though.
Which brings me to my next point: the depressed funk I've been in for a few months hasn't yet lifted. I tried (and failed) to write a post about being depressed. I saw it as a way to help figure out just what the hell my problem is, but it's hard to write about depression without sounding pathetic and trite--and that made me feel worse, somehow. So I never finished the post, and I'm still depressed. Now that I have health insurance, I feel like I might actually have some options if I do choose some kind of treatment, which is a nice change.
I've been reading books. I've hung out with friends a few times. We had people over (a big deal, since we never do that). We went to the bar once or twice. We've driven around the backroads of southern Illinois, looking for nothing in particular and finding interesting stuff, anyway: waterfalls that have run dry, grazing cows in the middle of a wildlife refuge, a small cemetery, hiking trails through rock formations. This week, we even cooked a complete Thanksgiving dinner because we felt like it. We call home too seldom, and haven't visited since March.
Basically, nothing has been happening. Just life. I guess that's enough, though.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Big Brother Tata
When I travel, I like to take notice of as many little details as I can, storing them up so I can get a sense of the place, and the people who live there. It doesn't matter where I'm traveling; I do this when I visit another town, another state, or another country. I look at what people are eating, what they wear, the gestures they use, whether or not couples hold hands in public--no detail is too mundane, and I am fascinated by all of it.
One thing we noticed throughout India was a brand name called Tata. We saw it on the bottled water, tea and coffee in our hotel rooms. It was on vehicles: cars, trucks, and buses. There were billboards for Tata's high speed Internet service in Hyderabad (for a really, really good price!). I had a sense that Tata was big, a corporate giant, when we saw their massive building complex in the area of Hyderabad called HITEC City, which also included complexes for pretty much any other technology company you can name.
But I didn't know how big Tata was until after we had come back to the U.S. and did a little Internet about their corporate holdings. Guys, Tata is HUGE. Tata is like Big Brother. Tata is going to take over the world.
Our hotel in Mumbai, the Taj, was not only owned by Tata--it was the company's first project, opening in 1902. Within the next few years, Tata branched out into a bunch of other industries, like education and steel and electricity. They now have 93 hotels in India and 16 around the world.
In Italy, I had always giggled at the tiny 3-wheeled "trucks" I saw hauling goods into the narrow alleys of Rome; I was a bit puzzled when I saw the same little trucks around Mumbai. As it turns out, Tata bought Piaggo (an Italian company) in 2008.
Reading the list of Tata's acquisitions and holdings is dizzying. They bought Tetley Tea in 2000. In 2004, they bought Daewoo Commercial Vehicles. They own the Boston Ritz Carlton. They bought Jaguar and Land Rover in 2008. Steel, chemicals, information technology, airlines, salt, financial services...you get the point.
Go to your local grocery store, to the coffee and tea aisle. Pick up a box of Tetley Tea or Eight O'Clock Coffee, and Tata's logo will be staring back at you from the side of the package.
Tata is watching you.
One thing we noticed throughout India was a brand name called Tata. We saw it on the bottled water, tea and coffee in our hotel rooms. It was on vehicles: cars, trucks, and buses. There were billboards for Tata's high speed Internet service in Hyderabad (for a really, really good price!). I had a sense that Tata was big, a corporate giant, when we saw their massive building complex in the area of Hyderabad called HITEC City, which also included complexes for pretty much any other technology company you can name.
But I didn't know how big Tata was until after we had come back to the U.S. and did a little Internet about their corporate holdings. Guys, Tata is HUGE. Tata is like Big Brother. Tata is going to take over the world.
Our hotel in Mumbai, the Taj, was not only owned by Tata--it was the company's first project, opening in 1902. Within the next few years, Tata branched out into a bunch of other industries, like education and steel and electricity. They now have 93 hotels in India and 16 around the world.
In Italy, I had always giggled at the tiny 3-wheeled "trucks" I saw hauling goods into the narrow alleys of Rome; I was a bit puzzled when I saw the same little trucks around Mumbai. As it turns out, Tata bought Piaggo (an Italian company) in 2008.
Reading the list of Tata's acquisitions and holdings is dizzying. They bought Tetley Tea in 2000. In 2004, they bought Daewoo Commercial Vehicles. They own the Boston Ritz Carlton. They bought Jaguar and Land Rover in 2008. Steel, chemicals, information technology, airlines, salt, financial services...you get the point.
Go to your local grocery store, to the coffee and tea aisle. Pick up a box of Tetley Tea or Eight O'Clock Coffee, and Tata's logo will be staring back at you from the side of the package.
Tata is watching you.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Raskin Bobbdins
If you've spent any time with my family, you know that it can be difficult sometimes to get my dad to take things seriously. My dad has a joke for every situation. He also delights in embarrassing my mom, especially in public places.
As they shop, he walks funny and yells things at my mom in different voices, assuming the role of a few favorite characters:
In restaurants, my dad shows the server he needs a drink refill by getting up from the table with his empty glass and inquiring loudly where the refill station is. As he makes his way over, the server inevitably tries to stop him, insisting "Sir, let me do that for you" while my dad says "Thanks, but I can do it myself."
In Chinese restaurants, my dad insists on speaking a little Spanish.
At fast food drive-thru windows, my dad asks for his meal "to go." The teenagers whose voices blare through the intercom do not always get the joke.
Nothing infuriates my mom more than my dad's made up language, though. Over the years, my brothers and I have participated in hammering out the linguistic details, most of which seem to come naturally to us.
The language uses English words, but adds plosive/hard letters like p, d, and t between syllables or at the ends of words. For example, "coffee" becomes "cofftee" (this may have been the origin of the language, as my dad actually heard someone say this in conversation). Some words ending with -el or -le drop their real endings and peter out in an "o" sound. Here are some examples:
Mom: So I think we should--
Dad: Oh, there's Tacto Bellt!
Mom:--stop at Kroger--
Dad:You mean Krogder?
Mom: Mike, stop it! Will you just listen for a minute?
Dad: Listen? (spelled the same, but with a pronounced "t" and said with a sly grin)
Mom (with increasing agitation): Honey! Cut it out!
Dad: You mean Hontey. Oh, Hontey, don't get mad!
Mom: Mike! That's stupid! I hate that!
Dad: Hey, you wanna get ice cream at Raskin Bobbdins? They have 31 flavdors!
Mom: MIKE!
I still giggle every time I pass a Baskin Robbins.
As they shop, he walks funny and yells things at my mom in different voices, assuming the role of a few favorite characters:
- Enlarged Prostate Man has a bowlegged shuffle and calls after my mom, yelling "Honey! Wait for me!" while using his balled fists to propel his momentum. His pants are hitched up over his belly button.
- The Belly, a variation on Enlarged Prostate Man, also hitches his pants above his natural waist; in addition, he arches his back to round out his stomach like a globe, swaying side to side with each step. Sometimes he rubs his belly, saying "So-ahh....You know-ahh....Weeeeeeell.....!"
- The Old Fart wheezes a little and has a limp. He also farts loudly, waving his hand in front of his nose and shouting "Oooh, well paaaardon me!" and giggling slightly.
- Pegleg walks with one leg stiffened, dragging the shoe sideways. He sometimes has a harelip.
- Blindy shuffles slowly, making little headway. His reading glasses, if he has them, are pushed as far as possible down the bridge of his nose. Taking a bottle of something toxic off a store shelf, Blindy gestures at my mom, commanding her to read the label for him: "Are these the kind of instant mashed potatoes I like?" he'll ask, referring to the box of rat poison in his trembling hands. "Read this for me, I can't tell if this is motor oil or transmission fluid" he'll say, holding up a bottle of Italian salad dressing.
- The Incompetent has problems controlling his mouth and eyes, sometimes drooling, often pulling his lips down into a clown-like frown and opening his eyes wide, as if stunned. Sometimes there are strings of incoherent sounds.
- The Stroke, similar to pegleg, drags one leg. He also drools out of the side of his mouth.
- Pantsfull is...self-explanatory, I think. There's quite a bit of waddling.
In restaurants, my dad shows the server he needs a drink refill by getting up from the table with his empty glass and inquiring loudly where the refill station is. As he makes his way over, the server inevitably tries to stop him, insisting "Sir, let me do that for you" while my dad says "Thanks, but I can do it myself."
In Chinese restaurants, my dad insists on speaking a little Spanish.
At fast food drive-thru windows, my dad asks for his meal "to go." The teenagers whose voices blare through the intercom do not always get the joke.
Nothing infuriates my mom more than my dad's made up language, though. Over the years, my brothers and I have participated in hammering out the linguistic details, most of which seem to come naturally to us.
The language uses English words, but adds plosive/hard letters like p, d, and t between syllables or at the ends of words. For example, "coffee" becomes "cofftee" (this may have been the origin of the language, as my dad actually heard someone say this in conversation). Some words ending with -el or -le drop their real endings and peter out in an "o" sound. Here are some examples:
- Glasses --->Glasstes
- Capable--->Captable (not pronounced "cap table," though)
- Rubber--->Rubbder
- Slippers--->Slippters
- Dog--->Dogd
- Apple--->Apptle
- Applebee's--->Apptlebee'sd
- Burger King--->Burgder Kingd
- Logan's Roadhouse--->Rogan's Loadhouse (Aaron and I added this one; I have accidentally used it in conversation with "non-native" speakers)
- Rascal--->Rasto
- Weasel--->Weaso
- Bubble--->Bubbdo or Bubbo
- Sombrero--->Lombardo
- Flabbergasted--->Fiberglassted
- Bereavement--->Begrievement
- Reba McIntyre--->Reeva McIntosh
Mom: So I think we should--
Dad: Oh, there's Tacto Bellt!
Mom:--stop at Kroger--
Dad:You mean Krogder?
Mom: Mike, stop it! Will you just listen for a minute?
Dad: Listen? (spelled the same, but with a pronounced "t" and said with a sly grin)
Mom (with increasing agitation): Honey! Cut it out!
Dad: You mean Hontey. Oh, Hontey, don't get mad!
Mom: Mike! That's stupid! I hate that!
Dad: Hey, you wanna get ice cream at Raskin Bobbdins? They have 31 flavdors!
Mom: MIKE!
I still giggle every time I pass a Baskin Robbins.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
We Regret to Inform You; Or, Life in The Rejection Section
Last May, I finished my second go-round with graduate school, earning an MFA from Southern Illinois University Carbondale. I loved my program; half because I was able to spend three funded* years writing poetry and teaching, and half because of the people I was lucky enough to work with over the years--students and faculty alike. Not that I'm shilling for SIUC, but it was an awesome experience because Rodney, Allison, Judy and Jon felt more like poetry godparents than "faculty" at times. I've always looked down on the big-name programs because I'm not a name-brand kind of girl, and I've read about how students in big-name programs are neglected, that the atmosphere is hopelessly haughty, that the "literary star" faculty members are never there, etc. I'd take a kiss on the cheek from Rodney Jones over possibly, maybe, catching a glimpse of super-famous poet X any day. And Rodney likes my banana bread.
So I entered the world last spring with an MFA diploma to hang next to my MA from Central Michigan University. I had really developed my passion for teaching, and won an award (with a cash prize!) recognizing my efforts. I wanted to keep teaching. I loved teaching. It was the only place I really felt at home. The world was my oyster!
Well, no. As it turns out, the world (as far as teaching positions are concerned) is a rotten oyster. One of those mutated Gulf oysters suffering the adverse effects of the BP oil spill. I was released into a job market flooded with many, many qualified applicants, many of whom also have PhDs, in addition to one or more master's-level degrees.
Universities and colleges have openings, but I'm often disqualified from the beginning because I don't have a PhD. I'm further disqualified by the amount of specialization they're looking for in potential applicants, because they want the most bang for their (sometimes agonizingly paltry) buck, to the point where an applicant needs to be able to teach composition and/or ethnic literature and/or drama and/or gender studies and/or American literature and/or use technology in the classroom (pick three or four of these, and you get the idea). I can do some of this. I cannot do all of this. I'd wager that very, very few people actually can do all of this.
It keeps me up at night, that nagging yet cartoonish voice that says "Maybe you need to go back to school. Maybe you need a PhD to even things up." But I don't want to get a PhD right now. I may never want to return to graduate school, since I've already spent five years of my life as a graduate student.
So I apply. I broaden my search to include admissions and academic advising positions. I look for jobs in a huge general geographic region, but I'm still limiting myself because Aaron and I have this crazy plan that involves starting our real lives and having children, and we'd like to live a little closer to home so that our parents don't have to be long-distance grandparents. I know that's probably stupid, because it really does limit us, but I tear up every time I think of my unborn children only seeing their grandparents on holidays and trying to get my parents to figure out Skype.
And as I apply, and enter my personal information and education background and employment history, and upload cover letters, and submit resumes and CVs, and try to communicate with nameless faceless automated systems, I desperately hope for a break from a Human Resources representative or hiring committee. Often, there's no one to address the letters to, no name associated with the job search, no way to look them in the proverbial eye with a steady gaze and give them a firm handshake that says hire me.
And then I wait.
Recently, I had a telephone interview for a job I really, really wanted. It was a position as an academic advisor for the liberal arts college at a large university in the state of Michigan. Upon seeing the posting, I had rejoiced, because I went to a liberal arts college, I had not one but two master's degrees, I had a connection to the area. The interview went well.
But they still rejected me, saying they wanted someone with more experience and a broader education background. That it was an honor to be chosen for a phone interview. That there had been 221 applicants for the position. That I should take solace in all of this. And yet, it still felt like a punch in the gut. Or a brick hurled through my bedroom window in the dead of night, rubber-banded with a note that read Guess what? You're just not good enough.
I know that my self-worth is not tied to this one job. Or any job. And that being rejected for this position really doesn't mean I won't be good enough for a different position down the road. Or that, with a different applicant pool, my credentials would have buoyed me higher. If you look at in a strictly mathematical sense, though, I'm a penny-slot gambler thrust into the high-stakes table games.
The house wins.
Today, another rejection: a letter mailed to my house, rather than an impersonal e-mail. The ink on this one was smudged, my letter being just one among many rejections printed, signed, folded, and mailed out that day. Having a tangible letter feels slightly better than the hollow rejection e-mails, but only just.
So I keep applying. I write and rewrite cover letters. I whisper "Hire me, please" to unseen committees when I hit those submit buttons. And I push down the voice that tells me I should have majored in business or marketing or economics, anything but English, because I don't trust that voice to have the answer to what my soul has needed all along.
*The funding at SIUC was the biggest shock to me, kind of like a bait-and-switch from a shady used car salesman. Sure, you get your tuition waived and you get a monthly stipend. You also have to surrender an entire paycheck each semester to cover exorbitant student fees; you might get funding for one summer, but you also might not. And don't even get me started on the library without any books in it.
So I entered the world last spring with an MFA diploma to hang next to my MA from Central Michigan University. I had really developed my passion for teaching, and won an award (with a cash prize!) recognizing my efforts. I wanted to keep teaching. I loved teaching. It was the only place I really felt at home. The world was my oyster!
Well, no. As it turns out, the world (as far as teaching positions are concerned) is a rotten oyster. One of those mutated Gulf oysters suffering the adverse effects of the BP oil spill. I was released into a job market flooded with many, many qualified applicants, many of whom also have PhDs, in addition to one or more master's-level degrees.
Universities and colleges have openings, but I'm often disqualified from the beginning because I don't have a PhD. I'm further disqualified by the amount of specialization they're looking for in potential applicants, because they want the most bang for their (sometimes agonizingly paltry) buck, to the point where an applicant needs to be able to teach composition and/or ethnic literature and/or drama and/or gender studies and/or American literature and/or use technology in the classroom (pick three or four of these, and you get the idea). I can do some of this. I cannot do all of this. I'd wager that very, very few people actually can do all of this.
It keeps me up at night, that nagging yet cartoonish voice that says "Maybe you need to go back to school. Maybe you need a PhD to even things up." But I don't want to get a PhD right now. I may never want to return to graduate school, since I've already spent five years of my life as a graduate student.
So I apply. I broaden my search to include admissions and academic advising positions. I look for jobs in a huge general geographic region, but I'm still limiting myself because Aaron and I have this crazy plan that involves starting our real lives and having children, and we'd like to live a little closer to home so that our parents don't have to be long-distance grandparents. I know that's probably stupid, because it really does limit us, but I tear up every time I think of my unborn children only seeing their grandparents on holidays and trying to get my parents to figure out Skype.
And as I apply, and enter my personal information and education background and employment history, and upload cover letters, and submit resumes and CVs, and try to communicate with nameless faceless automated systems, I desperately hope for a break from a Human Resources representative or hiring committee. Often, there's no one to address the letters to, no name associated with the job search, no way to look them in the proverbial eye with a steady gaze and give them a firm handshake that says hire me.
And then I wait.
Recently, I had a telephone interview for a job I really, really wanted. It was a position as an academic advisor for the liberal arts college at a large university in the state of Michigan. Upon seeing the posting, I had rejoiced, because I went to a liberal arts college, I had not one but two master's degrees, I had a connection to the area. The interview went well.
But they still rejected me, saying they wanted someone with more experience and a broader education background. That it was an honor to be chosen for a phone interview. That there had been 221 applicants for the position. That I should take solace in all of this. And yet, it still felt like a punch in the gut. Or a brick hurled through my bedroom window in the dead of night, rubber-banded with a note that read Guess what? You're just not good enough.
I know that my self-worth is not tied to this one job. Or any job. And that being rejected for this position really doesn't mean I won't be good enough for a different position down the road. Or that, with a different applicant pool, my credentials would have buoyed me higher. If you look at in a strictly mathematical sense, though, I'm a penny-slot gambler thrust into the high-stakes table games.
The house wins.
Today, another rejection: a letter mailed to my house, rather than an impersonal e-mail. The ink on this one was smudged, my letter being just one among many rejections printed, signed, folded, and mailed out that day. Having a tangible letter feels slightly better than the hollow rejection e-mails, but only just.
So I keep applying. I write and rewrite cover letters. I whisper "Hire me, please" to unseen committees when I hit those submit buttons. And I push down the voice that tells me I should have majored in business or marketing or economics, anything but English, because I don't trust that voice to have the answer to what my soul has needed all along.
*The funding at SIUC was the biggest shock to me, kind of like a bait-and-switch from a shady used car salesman. Sure, you get your tuition waived and you get a monthly stipend. You also have to surrender an entire paycheck each semester to cover exorbitant student fees; you might get funding for one summer, but you also might not. And don't even get me started on the library without any books in it.
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