Next, Part II

If spring comes in like a grumpy lion, then the beginning of summer comes in like the slowly clacking roller coaster cars en route to the top. So much anticipation for what comes next, which in my case, is hopefully some much needed writing, reading, and tomato growing. So far, I’m deep into the tomato part, thanks, in part, to Christina, who graciously shares all her seeds and seedlings with her seed-needy friends. I have taken to calling the side of the house “tomato mania,” since I have fourteen different types of heirloom tomatoes and seventeen total plants. I had my first sample yesterday and it reminded me of what real tomatoes taste like: sweet, with a little pop of acidy goodness. It tastes like what I love about summer. As far as tomatoes are concerned, that clackity-clackity car could not be moving any more slowly, although I know once July hits, that drop will come fast and furious.

And there are different types of anticipation, too. I anticipate the rising temperatures with some amount of dread, being in my 1906 rambler of a cottage with a huge attic and only meager accoutrements when it comes to cooling systems. I find myself biting my fingers when I think about money and specifically, the lack of it in the summer. I look forward to the days of reading and writing, and more sunlight to hike through the canyons up the street from my house, but in the back of my mind, I also know that once the drop comes, those days fly by in a blur and all at once, I’ll be back to that mind-numbing week before school starts. I try to savor these days, like I would one of my tomatoes that took weeks to flower, set, and mature, but once July hits, that drop comes fast and furious. The knowledge that it’s all going to go so fast is always in the back of my mind. It makes summer so much more precious and at the same time, so much more anxiety-ridden. I know it's all going to end so much sooner than I want it to.

As you may have guessed, I am (Sarah and I’m) a reluctant teacher. I do it because I need to more than because I want to, and while I do enjoy my students – some of them have made a huge impression on me – I still do it with a bit of feet dragging. And though I enjoy it, even the students who look at me with a mixture of disdain and boredom when I’m pouring out my best thoughts, and even though I enjoy bettering my semesters with new ideas and activities, I still resent it. I resent that I have so little creative energy to exert on my own writing. I resent that all my attention is poured into others and never into myself. I resent that my abilities and time are not reflected by a decent health care plan. I resent that I spend hours commenting on drafts that are turned in just the same or with two more commas inserted. Yes, I know, I need to let go of being so resentful, but as a very wise person pointed out, then what would I do with the resulting free time?

But then, there are lots of things I don’t resent. I don’t resent getting paid (especially right now). I don’t resent getting to work with some wonderful people who are both artistic and total smarty-pantses. I don’t resent when my students grow and transform as writers and people and I have the front row seat to the event. I don’t resent getting to talk about issues that are important to me and, I hope, to the future of the entire world. I don’t resent opportunities to make writing, for a handful of select students, something fun and not dreadful. I don’t resent the sense of purpose I have from doing something that other people consider valuable to society. So see, between the resenting and the reading of papers, there are moments of brilliance.

This may be why the last season of Angel made such an impression on me and for the first time ever, Angel himself. Angel is the poster boy for reluctant service, especially when the service involves taking over the evil law firm Wolfram and Hart. He’s always been willing to work alone, to do whatever work he can to redeem his evil vampire past, and help the people in the world who most need help. But, as it turns out, he needs help from others to do this and once he lets those people into his orbit, it’s chaos: they get hurt, they die, they break his heart, their bodies are taken over by barely contained goddesses (Cordelia, Fred). Angel finds out that the person he may hate worst in the world – reformed-vampire-meets-Billy-Idol, Spike – is now the guy he desperately needs on his side. He, by turns, is resentful of his guiding mission and then at moments, is lost in the brilliance of how good it can be.

In the first part of this post, I was wondering how you know when you’ve stayed true to yourself. What if you’re really a writer, but do the teaching thing to pay the bills for a while – can you still call yourself a writer? Joss Whedon said this is the dilemma of your twenties, but when August rolls around, I will officially be out of my twenties, and yet, I don’t think this dilemma will necessarily go away. It hasn’t for others I’ve known who are way past their twenties and still, looking for a way to feel not so reluctant about the so many things that take up their lives.

There’s always that tension for people like me who find a gap between their passion and sustaining that passion while they’re working out the kinks, the timing, or the publishing rights.