The Whirlwind

As the semester winds down, the pace of my life seems to accelerate. Suddenly there are things to do and places to go--and a bunch of assignments for which procrastination is no longer an option. I'm livin' in the whirlwind, baby!

Among the many things to do, I gotta say that going to the many guest lectures offered by the UTK History Department is one of my favorites. At one such event, an historian (I forget where she's from) presented her in-progress research on the Indian chief Massasoit and his place in American collective memory. Massasoit was one of the Indians who greeted the Pilgrims upon their 1620 arrival in Plymouth. This historian traced the weird story of the statue of Massasoit at Plymouth and the copies of the statue that found their way across the U.S.  Of course, it's all about public memory, so I really enjoyed it. 

Another lecture I recently attended was on the subject of a woman named Merz Tate, someone who has sort of fallen off the historical radar. Tate was an African American female intellectual, educated at Oxford, and quite well known for her take on world affairs back in the 1940s and 1950s. The lecture was a good one, although the historian presenting was not a wiz at modern technology (PowerPoint problems). 

These lectures are a terrific opportunity to find out what is happening in the wider world of historical research. I try to go to as many as I can, and I wonder why ol' Sac State didn't have programs like this. 

Of course, my madcap social life continues, adding to the whirlwind. Calhoun's on the River seems to be home-away-from-home for my little band of classmates. 

As I have mentioned before, the weather has warmed and I've taken to hanging out by the pool again. Of course, Leatherback consistently makes his presence known. It's almost as though he were committing some slow form of suicide by actively courting melanoma. But that's not the worst of it. He's acquired something new since last summer....

Miss Two-Piece has entered the picture!

That's right, ladies and gentlemen. Leatherback has a sweetheart. I caught my first glimpse of this unusual creature while sharing a special birthday telephone call with my beloved nephew, Joe. I had just put some clothes in the washer when he called, so I grabbed a lounge chair in the shade and settled in for a nice gab fest. When Leatherback and Miss Two-Piece arrived on the scene, I was compelled to interrupt the conversation so I could describe to Joe the scene unfolding before me. 

The sunbathing couple was pretty disruptive upon their arrival in the pool area. They needed to move their chairs around, move one of the small tables to suit them, and generally get themselves situated for maximum exposure to ultra-violet rays. Then, as Leatherback turned on his little music-making device from yesteryear, Miss Two-Piece slathered herself with what appeared to be some sort of bodybuilding shiny oil. Leatherback took a couple of generic beers from the ever-present cooler and they each fired up a cigarette. While Leatherback is soft-spoken, Miss Two-Piece has a voice that, unfortunately, carried to the other side of the pool and washed over me. She has that harsh, Hillary-Clintonish voice with a just a hint of smoker's rasp to make it uniquely her own.

And that drawl!  I never realized until I lived here that there are two distinctly different drawls. There is the cultured, sweet-to-the-ears drawl of people like Tess, Matthew, Michael, and Liz. That kind of drawl says "welcome to the South" and "please enjoy our down home hospitality."  That drawl brings humor, wit, intelligence, and kindness with it. But that's not the drawl of Miss Two-Piece. Her's is the strident tone of someone living in a trailer park and wailing about someone prying their Confederate flag/assault rifle/girls' bathroom from their cold, dead hands. She could have been the woman on the bus tour Yvette and I took to Giverny years ago, the woman who, after an hour-long speech by the tour guide about the life of Claude Monet, got to Monet's house and inquired, "What did he do for a living that he could afford this house?"

And it wasn't just the voice of Miss Two-Piece. It was the constant stream of cigarettes moving to and from her drawling mouth. It was also the moment when she bent down in her two-piece swimsuit to smell some flowers and gave us all a good look at her covered-yet-robust behind. 

God knows, I have no room to criticize anybody's body shape. And Miss Two-Piece's is a far sleeker shape than my own. But for fuck's sake, woman, cover up that big white belly!  It's too much, I tell you!  

I am left to ponder how often Miss Two-Piece will grace the poolside with her overly exposed presence. I guess I'll find out this summer. For now, my focus remains on finishing the semester and, in less than two weeks, heading home to see my dingo, my babies, my parents, my BFF Yvette, the Princess, and so many others. 

For now, it's Knighty-Knight from Knoxville!

Silliness, Stupidity, and Syllabi

This past week has been quite the mixture of social-me and hermit-me. While I truly enjoy my "cave time," the good times and frustrating times of hanging with my fellow history grad students make life truly good in Knoxville.

First, the silliness....

Yes, that's me with powdered dye all over me. My partner in all this mayhem is none other than the irrepressible Alicia. This was technically an occasion to celebrate Holi, the Hindu spring festival held in India and Nepal, also called the festival of colors. But Alicia and I used the occasion to celebrate her completing her MA exam. Chantalle, who elected to maintain the purity of her clothes, acted as camerawoman not only for Alicia and I but also for several other UTK students wanting to memorialize the event. Everything was fun and frolic until the water guns were loaded up. The cool weather simply did not lend itself to the shot I took to the back. 

People who know me must realize that I've never done anything even as remotely insane as this (well, maybe back in my Job's Daughter days). Now I see what's been missing in my life--powdered dye!  While said dye came out of my hair and skin, my Hermitage tee, a pair of jeans, hard-to-reach spots in my wristwatch, and my formerly white bra will serve as reminders of the day I celebrated a friend's accomplishment by being decorated like an Easter egg. 

The evening after celebrating Holi, Adrien and his "honeys" met at Waffle House for a much-needed breakfast-for-dinner. It was waffles for Alicia, Chantalle, Minami, and me while Adrien bucked the trend with a breakfast sandwich. With much merriment, we stayed long at our table in the fairly deserted Waffle House. Conversation grew so lively that Chantalle felt no compunction about stating quite loudly that she'd gladly prostitute herself in order to visit Rome. Adrien immediately shushed her:  "You can't talk like that in Waffle House."  Waffle House is at once a sacred place and a place where lonely truck drivers might want to help Chantalle earn her plane ticket. 

This past weekend was given over to cave time. While the weather was nice, I chose to do some reading by the pool. Guess who is already working on his tan?

It's Leatherback!  He has a new cooler for his generic beer but he still stays entertained with weird music from what appears to be a little radio (hell, it might be an old cassette tape player!)

By Japan class on Tuesday I had recovered from the early Leatherback sighting and was ready to get down to business. But the need for social interaction was strong--and not just for me. At break, I checked my FB and saw that Dr. Bob had inexplicably posted a photo of nefarious historical figure John C. Calhoun.

Chantalle, always looking for an excuse to go out, suggested that dinner at Calhoun's on the River was now in order. Next thing you know, Chantalle, Nick, Tess, Michael, and me were tucked into a booth for some delicious Southern cooking. 

But the dining out experiences were not yet complete. 

Enter the stupidity....

In this instance, the stupidity came in the form of a surly little blonde waitress named Yvette. (Apologies here to the "real" Yvette--this girl brought no credit to the name you share.). 

Wednesday class being horrific as ever, it was decided that between the end of class and Minami's kendo demonstration at the International House on campus, a group of us would dine at Cracker Barrel. Michael and Nick provided chauffeur services for Alicia, Chantalle, Tess, Catherine, and me. First, a Cracker Barrel was chosen that was actually quite some distance from campus. Poor choice. Upon arrival, drinks were ordered--which order Yvette promptly got wrong. The next ordering process, that of food, seemed especially difficult for Yvette to manage, considering that her order-taking notepad was wet and she seemed oddly clueless. Somehow she managed. I mentioned to this dimwit that we were in a hurry, but those words were either: (1) incomprehensible to her; or (2) seen by her as an opportunity to delay us as much as possible. It was forty minutes before we saw Yvette again, in spite of a light crowd in the restaurant overall. Changing the orders for Alicia, Michael, and Chantalle to take-out (oh, I cancelled my order altogether--no way was I going to spend money on this shitty service), Yvette decides at this point to bring the food out for those at the table who were staying. Once again, however, she got the order wrong (Tess' cheese omelette came with a long slice of bacon in the middle, which Yvette informed her was the "standard omelette.")  

I was so angry by this time and so concerned that we would miss Minami's demonstration. Michael drove like a cautious-but-crazy man to get us back to campus, right in the nick of time. Or so we thought. 

Racing in to International House, we breathlessly asked for directions. That's when a big Australian guy lying on a couch in the reception room advised us that tickets were necessary AND that tickets were sold out. The vein in my forehead began to throb. 

Into Stella to dejectedly drive Chantalle and Alicia to their apartments. Leaving Alicia's, I was unsure how to find the freeway (shut up, I've only been here for eight months). I asked Siri for directions home, and that helpful electronic miss began to guide me. It wasn't until I was well north of town and she told me to "continue on this road for 165 miles" that I realized something was wrong. Yes, that bitch Siri was directing me to the town of Home, Minnesota. 

So many iterations of the word "fuck" were used when I corrected direction and drove home that I'm sure some of them must have been new to mankind. 

Finally, syllabi....

Syllabi is the word of the semester. I must develop one for my African American seminar and one for my Teaching World History class. For two long days, I have worked on my African American assignment, putting my nose to the grindstone with such ferocity and focus that today I found a note on my laptop. 

Guess it's time for more social-me!

Knighty-Knight from Knoxville....