Engaged!

As any first grader will tell you, the Fourth of July is Independence Day, a day when Americans celebrate the beginning of our great democracy.

This year, I celebrated the beginning of a freedom the likes of which I've never know. I truly feel like I can fly, because a man that I'm madly in love with asked me to start a life with him by asking one very important question.

I said yes, of course! (Dropped my coffee cup and everything!)

On the morning of July 4, Jeffrey and I got breakfast at Big City Bread here in Athens, got coffee at Jittery Joe's and headed down to Bear Hollow Trail, a free zoo-ish nature walk in ACC Leisure Service's Memorial Park. After taking in a few black bear cubs, owls, deer, a woodchuck, and two American Bald Eagles (perfect on Independence Day!), Jeffrey and I stopped above the adult Black Bear enclosure. There, after some sweet kisses and even sweeter words, Jeffrey got down on one knee and asked me to marry him.

I couldn't be any happier!

Spring Chicken

The morning light jittered on my knees as if it too were nervous about what my father would say. I expected his booming voice to carry bad news, bad news about Mom and yesterday’s doctor’s appointment. Even I knew that your lips are only supposed to turn blue when you’re cold. I expected Dad’s brisk, so-what attitude he seemed to share only with his family. I didn’t expect him to speak so softly. So… tentatively.

“Your mom’s gonna have to go on a diet,” I heard him say. We turned onto the road that would wind through the rich people’s neighborhood where I was daily deposited. “1200 calories. 1200 for the entire day,” he said as he thrust the car forward. I didn’t have more than a moment to process his dismissive, “You and I can go through that in a sitting,” remark before words, louder, more staccato, burst from his lips. “It’s because of her heart.”

I’d heard my father fling the phrase “heart for shit” during a fight they’d had about disciplining us kids, but thought it was probably a new insult Dad had conjured up for the week, right along-side “bitch-face.”

“Your Mom’s no spring chicken,” Dad said in his usual abrupt manner. “She was old when she had you.” Mom was a full decade younger when she’d had me, and yet, I knew that most kids my age didn’t cling to porcelain sinks to watch their parents apply Rogain to the roots of graying locks. But my mother wasn’t in a wheel chair. She didn’t have aging spots or deep creases in her skin. She was six or seven years older than Dad, but she wasn’t old.

Dad took my silence as his cue to drive his point home and prompted me to imagine what my life would be like if she died. The very thought made me depressed and panicky, and I, for once, considered it a blessing to have arrived at school. I can still hear the screeching of the window scraping the metal casing as it was forced down and his loud voice calling out to me after the car door snapped shut, “She’s old enough that she could kick it before you even get out of high school.”

I don’t remember what school was like, or if I hugged my mom particularly hard that night when she came through the back door in a flurry of commotion that I always associated with her. What I do remember was waking up in a fright in the middle of the night after dreaming of her death.

I softly crept down the hall, avoiding the noisy planks of wood far older than my mother would ever be, if what my father said was right. I eased open the door to my parent’s room, flooding light into the inky blackness, tensely waiting for the rise and fall of my mother’s chest. I clenched my teeth from the force of my silent plea, willing my mother to awaken so that I could confess to her my worry. The possibility that my father would wake up instead manifested itself as the aching chill that settled in just above my shoulder blades, pressure worse than any book bag crammed with school books could ever have been.

It was, of course, my father who stirred. His rumble in the darkness made me start, and the floorboards beneath my soles screeched in time to his words. Though he’d asked me what I was doing, and I knew the question would come, I only replied, “Nothing,” and scurried back into my room, praying that Dad wouldn’t lumber the few feet to the open door. I can still hear the wood bend under his weight, and see the shadow that was cast on the wall. My father’s frame filled the doorway, casting an even more intimidating shadow. He halted only a moment before coming in and settling himself at the end of the bed, repeating his question only after flicking the tip of his nose with his curled index finger.

“Why?” he asked, anger rising in his voice when I admitted I was checking on her. Even though it was too dark to see, I thought I could feel his face redden from the force of holding back his first response. He didn’t immediately speak, and that wasn’t like my father. When he got upset, he exploded. This, I knew, was something different. He jerked his hands back from his knees as if he wanted to wrap them around something, somebody. I saw my father do that in arguments when my mother made a point he couldn’t deny and baited him to disagree.

“If she dies, she dies.” He said it harshly, as if he wanted to beat the meaning into me, but knew it would do no good. “She’s old and there’s nothing you can do… there’s nothing we can do.”

I might as well have seen him sobbing for all the clarity I found there in the darkness. In that one moment, I understood his anger and frustration. My father was afraid—afraid she would die. He had tried to talk about it, tried to share with the wrong person. Suddenly, my strong, aggressive father was stripped away and, in his place, was left a man weak and flawed. When I crawled out from the covers and wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders, I could almost swear he shook.

Open letter to my classmates

Dear classmates, fellow bus-riders and hall-dwellers,

I know that Spring Break has only just ended, but I would really appreciate it if you would be so good as to stop talking about the past week.

You might find this hard to believe, but the folks around you don't want to hear about how painful every step you take is thanks to that stellar hide-tanning sunburn you fostered in Florida or Mexico. Some of us don't want to watch you carefully inspect your arms and legs in the middle of lectures, and certainly don't want to sit next to you as you peel off strips of your skin and carelessly flick them onto the floor of the bus.

Personally, when you recount your drunken exploits with that guy that Keeli went tailgating with, but Tameka was talking to for a minute——you know, the one with that bleached emo haircut you saw that time at the tanning salon——and how you couldn't remember his name the next morning 'cause you were so "wasted", all I think of is how trashy that sounds.

I don't want to know about how many hot girls you slept with last week, how many beers you drank, or how wild the parties you went to were. I don't want to hear about how sick it was, or how sick you got, and I certainly don't want to hear about the "nasty rash thing on her expletive so dirty I refuse to type it" and how your friend can't pronounce gonorrhea correctly.

Please save these conversations for dorm rooms, facebook posts and text messages. Those of us who don't enjoy getting hammered, buck naked, crazy wild or horizontal with strangers would really prefer to quietly wallow in the misery that the post-Spring Break return to school brings out in all of us.

Thank you,

Jennifer

P.S.—— You should really get that rash checked. Seriously.

Simple products for simple tasks

When my beloved little mp3 player finally died this weekend, I took to the internet to search for the best prices on comparable devices...only to discover that there really aren't any machines quite so simple anymore.

When did every single product venture into the all-in-one market?

I want a simple little device that plays songs with a one-line readout of the tune blaring through my ear buds, not some high-tech, video-playing, internet-surfing, four-star-rated system with eight to fourteen buttons, a camera function, global positioning system software, a microwave, language-translator that allows me to do my banking in Croatia and Laos all in a bright-pink skin with wrap-around, ignore-the-world headphones that scream, "I'm so cool and aloof, there's no way you can approach me on the bus and ask me to move my book bag so you could possibly sit down."

And can I forgo all of that stuff that'll cost me more than half my rent this month? Nope—not really.

In this high-speed, on-the-go culture, products with only one function seem to be forced out of the market at major retailers, and have been replaced by the consolidation gadget. Printers no longer run off a home-work assignment; they scan, fax and, in some cases, hop on the internet for quick, targeted printing. Cell phones no longer just make calls; they conference, photograph, play music, watch television, play games, surf the web, morph into keyboards, tune guitars, translates documents, projects movie trailers onto a wall, and run hundreds of available programs or applications ("apps" is a terrible word, by the way. Shall I just start calling them "progs" just to mess with people and see how many correct me?), all designed to make your life easier.

I understand this concept——maximizing the utility of certain objects or products is a good marketing/business move. It's nifty having a camera that also takes brief video clips. It's convenient to be able to find your way out of the boonies when you're lost. But don't do this all-in-one dance with every product.

I want a home phone that rings and dials. I want a stapler that just links two pieces of paper together. I want a can-opener that only opens cans. And I want an mp3 player that just plays music.

"Nota Bene, Latin for "note well," is Phi Theta Kappa's honors anthology. It recognizes outstanding writing of Phi Theta Kappa members and demonstrates to the literary public the academic excellence and commitment to scholarship found at two-year colleges. The first issue of Nota Bene was published in 1994; it has been published annually ever since.

The Citation Scholarship, a stipend of $1,000, is given to the author of the Nota Bene manuscript considered to be the most outstanding of all entries.

Four authors receive the Reynolds Scholarship Awards, stipends of $500 each. These awards are endowed by the Donald W. Reynolds Foundation in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. They honor the memory of the late Donald W. Reynolds, founder of the Donrey Media Group."
--- From the Phi Theta Kappa Nota Bene Web site.

September 30, 2009:
"Members whose literary works were selected for the 2009 edition of Nota Bene, Phi Theta Kappa's literary honors anthology, are announced this week.

Nota Bene is distributed internationally to community college leaders and community college libraries.

"We congratulate our 2009 Nota Bene honorees and their colleges," said Phi Theta Kappa Executive Director Rod A. Risley, who serves as Founding Editor of the honors anthology.

"At a time when writing skills are neglected, Phi Theta Kappa is proud to provide a platform to nurture creative writing and effective communication. Nota Bene, which will be distributed internationally, will showcase outstanding writing by community college students and emphasize the opportunities for excellence found at community colleges," said Risley.

Jennifer Johnson of Georgia Perimeter College received the Citation Scholarship of $1,000 for the entry judged best overall, her short story, The Act of Salvaging.

Reynolds Scholarships of $500 each were awarded to:

Mariangela Jordan, Greenville Technical College, South Carolina, for her poem, English 101. Jordan's poem History was also selected for the 2009 edition.

Jandra Oliver, Nashua Community College, New Hampshire, for her poem, Future Memory. Oliver's poem Sorting Socks will also be included.

Jared C. Silvia, Valencia Community College, Winter Park Campus, Florida, for his short story, Uncle Benny. Silvia's short story, The Boxer, was also selected.

Linda Sirois, Bay de Noc Community College, Escanaba Campus, Michigan, for her essay, Terva Paikka. Sirois' essay, A Few Words about Algebra, was also selected.

Members and their submissions chosen for publication include:

Brittani Alexander, Glendale Community College, Arizona, Mae - short story

Gabriel Dietz, Butte College, California, God, Man and the Mysterious Force - research paper

Alison Green, Illinois Valley Community College, Illinois, The Platte City Rabble-Rousers - short story

Anthony Heyward, Borough of Manhattan Community College, New York, Granddaddy - essay

Mitzi Kay Jackson, Wayne County Community College, Downtown Campus, Michigan,
Long Way to Go - poem

Linda Lyons, Pima Community College, Arizona, Beginnings - essay

Jennifer L. Miller, Butte College, California, Note to the English Teacher - poem

Alison Ann Springle, Bucks County Community College, Newtown Campus, Pennsylvania, Holiday Wish - poem

Kaitlin Williams, College of the Desert, California, Back Alleys - poem

James A. Yarrow, Santa Ana College, California, For a Rainy Day - poem "

--Press release from Phi Theta Kappa



The Act of Salvaging, a story I wrote about a year ago, was selected as the 2009 Nota Bene Citation Award.

I'm over the moon!

If ever I needed any encouragement to continue writing, this is it. Just when I needed it.

Credibility is all in the digging

Being a conscientious reporter is an especially tedious endeavor at the moment.

I'm waiting for a call back from a Civil War historian or a researcher at the Southern Museum of Civil War and Locomotive History in Kennesaw (whomever contacts me first) to double-check the verity of an anecdotal lead involving a dead guy, a railroad line and a defunct (or then-temporary) Confederate Hospital in Union Point, which may also have been called Scruggsville at the time.

Sure, I could shrug my shoulders, say, 'what the hell', and proceed with my story the way it is. 'So what,' I could say. 'A Civil War historian gets bent out of shape because I confused the railroad track that went into a little city in North--

Oh. There. The phone.

Apparently, I had it wrong... good thing I checked.

It took some digging and a few phone calls, but I think it was worth it to retain a reader that might have gotten bent out of shape over fallacies in an anecdotal lead.

Maybe being a conscientious reporter isn't quite as tedious an endeavor as I thought...

'Be The Bitch'

"Ms. Johnson, what would you say if I told you that we can continue to deliver you the same great service at a fraction of the cost you now pay?"

"A fraction of the cost sounds nice, but I don't need it," I said, trying to wiggle out of the retail conundrum. "I really just want to close out my accounts with you."

"What can I do to convince you to reinvest your business in insert company name here?"

"Nothing, really. I'm sorry. I really am, but I just don't need a insert product/service name here anymore."

"Ms. Johnson, we here at insert company name here understand your frustration--"

Really?

"--And that's why we want to offer you the best possible solutions to make your money work for you, and to work toward your goals with a partner you can trust..."


A few weeks ago, when Mom moved out to the country and our joke of a cell phone provider tried to retain our business by trying to get her to purchase extra products and services to boost a non-existent signal, she handed me the phone. It felt as if she were giving me a free pass; a signal that clearly said 'Be The Bitch'.

Sure, I listened to the guy on the other end of the line, explained our predicament and told him we would not be investing any more money in the cell phone carrier. I ended the conversation sternly, making it clear there would be no further business transacted with the Johnson family. The relief that played across my mother's face made me feel good about being 'the bitch'.

It always surprises me, however, how hard it is to do.

I was on the phone today for nearly fifteen minutes trying to close out an account I no longer needed. I'm sure every customer-retention strategy was levied at me, and I understand that.

After all, I had to stand behind a counter and try to pitch credit cards to students who didn't know the first thing about overdraft fees, and try to persuade customers doing cash-advances on their credit cards to sit down with a personal banker to talk about applying for a line of credit they obviously couldn't swing. But at least I prided myself on stopping when I got the push-back.

I might have been pushing back against a brick wall today. And yet, my inner-bitch did not come to the surface. I did not struggle to bite my tongue. Strange that I can cop an attitude in completely unnecessary situations and still have a reputation among friends for being sweet all the time.

My family and my 'him' recognize that a little too much pushing and the bitch is there, dammit.

I'm not sure if I ever really paid attention to it before, but that 'inner bitch' is really the manifestation of my self-defense mechanism. It leaps to action when someone tries to take advantage of my family, but is strangely quiet when I'm being personally tormented by false authority figures (at least 'til a point). It overreacts, often savagely, at the slightest hint of pugilism from my 'him'. It is ugliest when it rushes to confront its arch-enemy, the acerbically-witted, forked-tongued inner bitch of the one with whom I share blood.

But in appropriate situations, when you need that little 'screw you, bub' injection to defend yourself, I tend to be a lamb about it. I understand now that fascination with those brazen women of the silver-screen, those take-charge broads who don't put up with anything. Each of us really could use a little more of that attitude in our lives, that 'don't you dare mess with me... or else' aura.

What really strikes me most, though, is that the only ones that will probably ever see my inner bitch are the people that deserve it the least.