The day shit got serious, or why I think we need to stop for a moment of solidarity and respect

I have been notified that some people were unable to post comments on this blog! Very sorry. I think I've fixed it now. But if I haven't, let me know by, uh...not commenting. Also, the two people who wanted to comment but couldn't were men in their 50s. I'm not sure what that says about my blog or my life...maybe it means I attract a distinguished audience. Or maybe retirees just have more time to comment on blogs. And then BBM each other about how they can't comment on blogs.

Anyway, I want to recommend that everyone take a moment today to reflect on what justice means to you. I probably haven't been following the news about the G20 arrests and trials as closely as I should have, and I'm not close to any of the so-called "ring leaders," but I do know a lot of people that are. And I have been reading all the headlines and snippets of news articles that get posted by their friends and loved ones on Facebook.

I don't have any profound statements to make about what justice should be. I don't know exactly what I think should have happened at the G20, and I'm not entirely sure how I think the trials should have gone. But I do know that something is very, very wrong with the way Canada has come to understand the word "justice." And I do know that this issue is something worth talking about.

Please, take a moment to read the individual statements of the accused, six of whom will go to prison, and many of whom have already served time in jail or on house arrest. Take a moment to think about what it means that these people are being presented to us by the media as some sort of cohesive group of evil-doers and conspirators, when, as they say here:

"This alleged conspiracy is absurd. We were never all part of any one group, we didn’t all organize together, and our political backgrounds are all different. Some of us met for the first time in jail. What we do have in common is that we, like many others, are passionate about creating communities of resistance."

Also, take a moment to read this article, and think about how incredible it is that the plea that was settled on - that six of them would plead guilty and eleven would have their charges dropped - was reached through consensus on the part of the seventeen accused:

"The group met on Sept. 21 and began exploring the possibilities of a plea. According to the Toronto Star, the group met six more times with the meetings being emotionally fraught, some up to seven hours long. They had agreed up front that any decision made would have to be unanimous and reached through consensus. It meant that all 17 were given time to voice any concerns. Amanda Hiscocks said there were tears, frustration, anger and laughter. It's a horrible position to be in, to sit around a table to decide who's going to jail and for how long."

Think about it. How many times in your life have you been in a group that needed to make a decision and the group just could not agree on any one thing? Even if it was where to go for dinner or what kind of office chairs to buy? 

Ruth Farquhar admits: "As I read how they reached a consensus, I thought, what a skillset these people have. I have sat on many boards and belonged to organizations that never would have been able to work under such pressure to reach a consensus on decisions .... I was astounded at the dynamic -- nobody speaking over anybody else, people giving their opinion, people saying, 'I'll take more but I want this person's charges to be withdrawn for these reasons'."

Maybe the people commenting on this article from The Globe and Mail who are referring to the accused as "idiots" and "parasites on society" should think about how they would handle making a decision like that.

I'm not saying that I have the answers here. But what I am suggesting is that you spend a few minutes today thinking about what justice is in this country, and in this world, and what it should be. What does justice mean to you?

(Things won't always be this serious on here. Just when I think something is really fucking important. I warned you on my fantastic About the Writing page that everyone should check out that although I want to challenge the notion that all grad students do is protest shit and whine about marking, we do do those things a lot. So here. I'm protesting shit. Sort of. Really I'm sitting at my computer in my pyjamas. It's a mental protest.)

(Tomorrow I'm putting up my Christmas tree. GET EXCITED.)

The day I argued with a stranger in a costume, or why I'm glad my degree is "useless"

Often (very, very, very often), grad students in the arts and humanities are faced with the question: "But why?"

I mean, a master's/doctoral degree in the humanities is useless, right?

About a month ago at a Halloween party, someone dressed as a Reno 911 cop confronted me with some version of this question. Instead of frantically whining "But it's not useless! I guess! Maybe! I don't know!" and flailing in exasperation, I took a slightly different route.

Me: But what if I want it to be useless?

Reno 911: *confused face*

Me: You mean it's economically useless, right? Like I won't get a high-paying job as a direct result of this degree?

Reno 911: *less confused face* Yeah! Exactly! And everyone wants a high-paying job!

Me: Well, maybe I think that the use value of things shouldn't be determined by their economic value. Maybe I want to learn for the sake of learning.

Reno 911: But you still need to get a job eventually!

Me: Well, I do have a job. I'm being paid more than my degree costs. And maybe I think that the system that forces us to only do activities that make us money is BULLSHIT. Because expanding your mind is AWESOME. So maybe I'm in grad school to learn how to CHANGE THE WORLD.

Reno 911: ...But you can't change the world alone.

Me: I'm not the only person in grad school.

Reno 911: *scared face*

Me: So what do you do?

Reno 911: I'm in geography... I draw maps...

Me: Very useful.

So I'm going to change the world. What are you going to do?

(That's not an actual invitation to fight or anything. You can do whatever you want. I'm just feeling defensive.)

Anyway, here's an awesome blog post from Hook & Eye that talks about changing our perspective on PhD programs.

The day I realized this blog was supposed to be about grad school, or why breaks shouldn't be more stressful than work

I realize that I was all like “This blog is about me being a grad student and I’m going to impart wisdom on all you people who have never been grad students on what grad student life is like!” And then my first two posts didn’t mention grad school at all. But I think that’s okay. Because although I am a grad student, I’m also nine thousand other things and I think part of my point in developing this blog in the first place was to demonstrate that the academic world is not completely separate from the “real world.” Grad students have a unique set of problems to deal with, sure, and also a unique set of awesome experiences, and I will share those with you in due time. But we also have parents and shitty apartments and regular un-nerdy moments. This divide that’s been created between the university and the so-called real world totally bums me out.

Seriously, though, is anyone going to actually tell me I currently do not live in the real world? Seriously? Because I would like to know where exactly that means I do live. Lala land, probably. But so what? I mean, as long as there's coffee and beer, what do I care? And vodka. And cheese. And pad thai.

Anyway, so here's a grad school story. Today I decided to take a break from my first term paper of my grad school career (ahhhhhhh!) and start my PhD applications! Yay! (Maybe I don't live in the real world. I think people in the real world a) leave their apartment and interact with other people on Saturdays b) don't work on Saturdays and c) take breaks that involve, you know, break-y stuff. See? I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT REAL PEOPLE DO ON BREAKS. I think I'm contributing to the myth of the divide between the university and the real world now... Crap.) Anyway, I decided to start with my application to the PhD program in the same department at the same school that I'm already in, since I figured that would be easy. I mean, not only have I already successfully completed an application to this department in this school already, but this school also already has all my information so in theory this should be a simple task. But the questions on these applications! Ugh!

For example, one question asks if I have applied for any external funding for next year, such as OGS SSHRC CGS Doctoral Other Scholarship/Sponsorship (i.e., CONACYT, etc.). Ummm...holy acronyms, Batman! I know I applied for OGS and SSHRC, so those are definitely two separate things, but did I apply for SSHRC or SSHRC CGS or SSHRC CGS Doctoral or SSHRC CGS Doctoral Other or or or I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE OFFICIAL NAME IS OR WHAT HALF THOSE THINGS STAND FOR. Especially CONACYT. I'm almost 100% sure I didn't apply for that.

Then it asks me if I "meet the requirement" of passing either a full university course in a language other than English or a reading examination in a language other than English by the final year of my PhD. Uh...well...presumably I will by the end of my PhD? Is "to be determined" an option? No? Damn it.

Conclusion: Universities need to start hiring people from the real world to create these applications. No one but a person with a doctorate could manage to ask simple questions in such an indirect, complex way.

The day my innocence died, or why I am currently in a state of mourning for someone that died 30 years ago

Once upon a time my father filled out a form for an energy company. (Yes, I’m serious, that is the beginning of the story.) Being the progressive man that he is, he didn’t want to just write his name on the form, because he wanted my mother to be acknowledged too, so he wrote his first name and my mother’s first name followed by our last name. Logical enough. Anyway, for some reason the energy company did not understand this and was all like “FIRST NAME TOO LONG MUST CUT OFF AFTER SIX CHARACTERS” which is absurd because my first name by itself is longer than six characters and so is my mother’s. HOWEVER, my father’s is not. His name is Jim. So by cutting the first name off after six characters, the energy company actually lengthened my father’s name. To Jimand. And now they call and mail letters to Jimand and hilarity ensues and now all my friends call him Jimand and really the point of me telling you all this was so that I could tell you a story about my father and refer to him as Jimand without anyone getting confused. Got it? Good.

So, as I’m sure is true of many people, my father (aka Jimand) has a groan-worthy sense of humour. He knows like three jokes, one of which is based off the formula for discovering the circumference or diameter or that-thing-that-I-don’t-give-a-shit-about of a circle. You know, pie are squared. πr2. But nooooo, Jimand says. Pie are not square! Cake are square! Pie are round! Hardy har har. Also, he is fond of informing me that beer makes you smart! Because it made Bud wiser and Jenna see! (I’m learning that apparently these jokes are better when said out loud. Who knew it was actually possible to make them worse?) Hardy har har har har.

Anyway, Jimand’s third joke (which is finally the point of the story, I swear): What kind of wood doesn’t float? (I don’t know, Dad, what kind?) Natalie Wood!!!!!! *guffaw*

But but BUT until a few days ago I just thought this was supposedly funny because she’s a PERSON, not a stick, therefore hardy har har. But no! NO!!!! NATALIE WOOD DROWNED. THAT IS HOW SHE DIED. SHE DIED BECAUSE SHE COULD NOT FLOAT.

What kind of fucked up person tells his daughter a JOKE about a woman, who may or may not have abused by her partner, DROWNING?!?!?!?!

I’m calling Children’s Aid. My father must be reported. Yes, I am aware that I am almost 23 and do not live with my parents. Yes, I am aware that my dad is volunteering for the Children’s Aid Christmas store fundraiser thingy this year. But still. SHE DROWNED.

The day I was attacked by a soap dish, or why I may need to start showering 7 times a day

When the man-friend and I moved in to our tiny, one-bedroom apartment (aka the love nest) at the end of August, we noticed a few...quirks. Loveable ones, for the most part. Like the white man's shirt hanging in the hall closet. (Oh my god, I just reread that...I mean the man's shirt which is white, not like the shirt than can only be worn by the white man or some twisted shit like that. Great first impression, Jocelyn!) And the collector's popcorn bucket from The Golden Compass (aka The Atheist Narnia) under the sink. Others were less loveable. Like the fruit flies (more on them later). And the missing tile in the shower that exposed a small hole in the bathroom wall.

Now, this missing tile didn't originally seem like a huge problem. Sure, there was a small hole, but it was shielded by the soap dish, and the building superintendent dude would be by to fix it before any real damage was done, right?

WRONG.

The other day I was showering away, minding my own business, when the soap dish, which had been diligently shielding the hole in the wall from filling up with water, suddenly quit. The soap dish, and A LARGE CHUNK OF THE WALL, decided to jump ship and attack me in my vulnerable showering state!!

And do you know what your gut reaction is when a soap dish and part of a wall try to attack your feet? (Probably not, because I doubt this is a common occurrence in anyone's life, and if it is, WTF?) YOU JUMP. Which is really not the smartest thing to do when you're naked, wet and slippery. (Your mom is naked, wet and slippery!) Anyway, I lived. But BARELY.

So I called the building superintendent and was all like WTF THE SOAP DISH TRIED TO KILL ME and he laughed at me and then told me he would come first thing Monday morning to fix it. Excellent.

Monday morning rolls around, and I get up at 8:30 to ensure that I am up when he comes to fix the demon hole in the shower. And I wait. And wait. And wait. And then I have to leave for class at noon and THERE IS STILL A DEMON HOLE IN MY SHOWER. At like 7:30 p.m. he calls me and is all like "Oh! I came by at 1 p.m. and you weren't there!" Because 1 p.m. is now first thing in the morning. Right. Anyway, now he's coming at 1 p.m. tomorrow. And if he's not here by 1:30, I am going to march up to his apartment (oh yeah, did I mention he lives right above me? showing up on time should soooo not be an issue) and be like COME DOWNSTAIRS OR I WILL ROT YOUR WALL BY SHOWERING SEVEN TIMES A DAY. True story.