Robo Hip for Reba

In just over a week I'm having hip-replacement surgery.  It's surreal that the date is now just around the corner because it took me 6 months just to get an appointment with the doc at the Cleveland Clinic, and then another 6 months to book the surgery.  Not to mention, I've been waiting literally my whole life to be pain free. 

I was born with hip dysplasia, and had my first surgery to "fix it" when I was 6 month old, then again when I was 2 and then again when I was a teenager (13 or 14?) at which time I was in a body cast for 2 months, followed by traction due to complications, a year of crutches and therapy. 

I've been thankfully bull-headed this entire time, pushing myself to work through my limitations, wincing in pain but insisting on not missing out on things that the pain and fatigue would otherwise keep me from doing.
I remember my surgeon when I was a teenager admitting to me his highest hope for my condition would be for me to have a fused hip, which would entail my dragging my leg with no joint motion.  I'm grateful he didn't tell me this prediction before my rehab because since I didn't know that reality, it didn't exist to me. 

I woke up at 5:30 nearly every morning as a teenager to walk on the treadmill, mentally visualizing the healthy, stronger me who would never limp, who would run with the wind hitting her smiling face.  As I write this, I can still see the wood-paneled wall in the living room where the treadmill was.  I would stare at that wall into the wood knots and family photos hung there of my first communion and siblings' sports teams.  I saw a stronger me, and I created a stronger me--never a non-limping, able-to-run me, but a stronger me.

But there have always been limitations.  My leg has been in pain in some way literally every day for nearly 37 years.  A simple walk in the mall as a teenager would leave me staring at the ceiling in bed that night, wondering if it would be better one day.  Now as a mom, I chase after my kids, again thinking I can simply work through this and suck it up, but with one leap towards them as we play "monster" I realize the time has come to quit pretending this is simply a "mind over matter" issue.  The matter is that my hip is done.  It's bone on bone and it's causing hip pain, knee pain and now back pain.

But the paranoid side of me fears that I should deal with this and avoid surgery because what if the surgery makes it worse? What if my body has accepted this disability and somehow goes off-kilter at a pristine, perfect, manufactured hip?  I guess I'm just afraid of the unknown.  I cannot imagine what it's like to walk without reminding myself not to limp.  I have no idea what it's like to run with ease, and I certainly don't know what a day without discomfort feels like.

It's like I'm a prisoner who is being released and now is suddenly really intimidated by the prospect.  Even though my hip has been nothing but crummy to me, it's been MINE.  It's my red-headed stepchild whom I've loved unconditionally.

Hell, maybe it's time to slap that child and kick it out on its ass.

I think I needed to write this to come to that conclusion.  Hell yes.  New, robotic, perfect hip, here I come.  I can't wait to welcome you in to the mess that is me!

Dayton Daily News

Here is what was published in today's Dayton Daily News.  It's my goal to really tackle writing this year and immerse myself in this fine community!

My husband, two kids and I moved to the Dayton area a year and a half ago from Chicago, and as a newly inducted Ohio voter, I felt the weight of my vote this election.  I took this enormous responsibility to heart and spent most of the election in limbo, quietly listening, actively not listening at other times, and just genuinely trying to find answers to lead me to a decision.  I tried to block out the obnoxious noise of the election to focus on the election.

But there is a stigma attached to indecisiveness, especially in the arena of politics.  I’ve come to learn that being undecided does not show thoughtful consideration in the eye of most voters; it shows naivety, gullibility or lack of intelligence and awareness.  

Being decided on a vote, on the other hand, has a warm, fuzzy feeling attached to it.  Being committed to an answer leaves us feeling confident and strong in our convictions. It implies that we’ve done our homework and have gathered all the information needed.  It is a perceived stamp of intelligence, and as tempting as it was to join this comfort, I remained in voter’s purgatory for nearly all of the election, cringing at most of the information I vowed to ingest with contemplation. 

My being an undecided voter caught the attention of The New Yorker magazine that sent a photographer to be embedded in our house for four straight days to investigate what in the world causes a voter to be undecided.  I was an anomaly—an undecided voter is one thing, but an undecided OHIO voter?  Alert the media!

I teach critical thinking skills to my English composition students at Sinclair Community College.  Students look as though they were kicked in the guts as I tell them they must listen to the other side of their argument before they can write a sound, level-headed argument essay. I recently asked a student, “Why is it so hard listening to people who don’t think the same as you?” His answer was alarming:  “Because they’re wrong.  That’s a fact.”

I can most certainly understand this nineteen-year-old student, as I am quite certain I had the same stubborn stance in my younger days. However, it made me look at the election process in the same way—we often come to conclusions—a vote—long before the facts are presented to us.  We skew these opinions and convictions into facts and truths, when in reality they are personal attachments, beliefs and our egos. 

It takes a release of our egos to be critical thinkers who challenge ourselves to see beyond our own self-interests and allow opposing views to make their way in without infuriating us.  That is not to say we should agree with everything we hear.  But we do tend to listen to and embrace views that validate our own thinking, and we rally against anything that steps outside this cozy circle.  It is much easier and fun to show allegiance to one side and look for evidence to further prove the other side is wrong and maybe even ridiculous and moronic.  It is much more difficult to open the slammed doors in our brains, letting even off-kilter points of view make their way into our consideration.  It demands we think and not simply comfortably follow.   

It’s a dirty little secret that I was undecided for so long.  I would politely sit through pep talks from liberal friends about how Obama is amazing and Romney is nothing but a money-hungry jerk who wants to make the rich richer.  On the converse, I would respectfully sit through spiels from conservative friends who touted Romney’s plan and warned that Obama is nothing but a socialist who wants everyone to be on welfare.

Isn’t there any gray area in politics?  Maybe Romney could be right about this and Obama right about that?  Does it have to be that only one candidate can be absolutely right about everything and the other candidate is absolutely wrong about everything and is nothing but downright horrible, ridiculous and vindictive? Does life really deal in such absolutes?

Now that the election is over, we all have to be okay with the outcome. If your guy didn’t win, take a good look at the guy who did win because he is now your guy.   If your candidate didn’t become the president, you have a choice.  You can either go into the next four years with the outlook of “He will do nothing right ever” or you can open your mind, sit back and be pleasantly surprised to find that the person running our country will do something right.  Try to find one thing he might not mess up.  Start with that.

All Things Considered

I'm sticking to my goal of getting my essays out there.  Actually, I should say I'm sticking to my goal of trying to get my essays out there.  I'm going to submit the commentary below to public radio's show called All Things Considered.  If it's not chosen, my plan is to send them something every week until something is.

 

Kissy Monster

She was called Kissy Monster by her nephews because of how she covered them with kisses whenever she saw them.  She was killed in the 9/11 terrorist attacks.  I don’t know what her real name was and I can’t even remember where I read the tribute to her, but as I read it last year I shivered with grief for her and the thousands of others who lost their lives that horrific day.  I pictured her nephews squealing with laughter as their energetic aunt wrapped her arms around them and they squinted their eyes as the kisses landed. 

I don’t know anyone who died in the attacks, not even a friend of a friend who died, but every year on the anniversary, I think about the typical, everyday people who were going about their lives as they always did until life stopped abruptly that day.  People were going to work, dropping their kids off at school, running errands to check off their to-do lists.   This seemingly ordinary, mundane life is what ties us all together.  It is exactly what Kissy Monster and everyone else was up to that day 11 years ago.

For me, 9/11 is a day to be grateful for the glorious ordinariness of life. My life is filled with routines as tedious as paying bills, breading chicken, and fighting road rage.  When my head hits the pillow I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever leave a mark on this world in any extraordinary way, but it has occurred to me that each of us makes a mark.  This humdrum drudgery is no drudgery at all.  It is the precise heartbeat of life and how we maneuver our way through the ordinariness is what lingers in the minds of those left behind long after we’re gone. 

Instead of wondering if I’m leaving a mark, my goal is to ask myself if I was a good Kissy Monster.  Did I engulf my family with love and laughter? Did I reach out to friends and hold them close? Did I happily invite the wonderful ordinariness of life or did I drag my heels complaining that I’m nothing spectacular?

I was reminded of this today as I left the house and my family came running up to me screaming, “HUGS!” and I doled out my usual dose of “love bolts” which consists of holding my chest up to theirs and exuding sounds of electrical bolts shooting love into their chests.   I thought of Kissy Monster then and wished I knew her name.  Maybe one day my kids will give their kids love bolts.  I hope this more than I hope that I succeed in anything else I do in my life.

Pluggin' Away

So it's official--I'm working on my second book, but this book will not be self-published.  No, I don't have a publisher yet, but I won't stop until I get one.  And, no, I haven't tried to get one yet either, but I will. Yes, I will.  I'm actually going to take some stories from my first book Sunbathing in a Body Cast and add a whole bunch more and rename it Sunbathing in a Body Cast:  True Stories of a Resilient Runt.  I was going to call the book I'd Like to Thank My Colon but I think the other title holds a bit more pizazz to it.  It's hard to carve out time to write every day, but this past weekend I sat down for 15 minutes and wrote 1200 words, so I know I have it in me.  Most of the stories deal with social observations, being a mom, crazy things I think about, my walk away from corporate America, and plenty o' self-deprecating humor. 
Amidst this work in progress, I have the date of Dec. 11 looming in the back of my mind because that's when I'm going to get my hip replaced at the Cleveland Clinic.  It's hard to not let that be the only thing I think about every day.  Of course my brain goes to a dark place and hopes I don't kick the bucket on the operating table.  It's not likely, but wouldn't that just be my luck?  Today I went to run after my 20-month old and could barely do it from the stiffness and pain in my hip, so I'm looking forward to the day when I can do it.  I'm not even 40 and I'm slowing down and it's a reality check.  People always talk about how one day you'll feel old and it's shocking to have that one day be this day.  I'm active and healthy and strong, but this feeling of slowing down is suffocating to me.  I want to be able to run after my kiddos when they're young, but I also want to do really cool stuff with them when they're adults like travel.  Cece and I talk about going to Italy and she's told me countless times about how she's going to be "a single lady and travel."  So Mama needs this hip to keep up.
So beyond the thoughts of this surgery and teaching writing classes every day and running after my family every day, there is a start of my next book, and in my bones I know it's good.  It's good because ever since grad school I've been quietly sitting back and absorbing as much as I can about writing.  I finally feel like I get it. It doesn't always come out as though I get it, but I do get it now and I hope I have the courage to keep letting it out.

Work vs. Life Cagematch!

I sometimes write for the Faculty Forum at the college where I teach. This is my latest article:

Work vs. Life Cagematch!
Rebecca Rine-Stone

A student recently came up to me after class with a concern. He had been out of school for twenty years, and he was nervous about his writing. I assured him that’s understandable, but I would do all that I could to give him the help he needed. Then he said, “Well, I’m intimidated by you because I mean, here you are the TEACHER. You don’t know how intimidating that is.” His assumption that I have my life neatly lined up enough to evoke awe caused me to nearly spit my cold Folgers out in laughter.

His perception at least assured me my outward appearance and professional persona are belying my true inner tug-of-war struggle, trying to find balance between work and life. I was relieved he wasn’t able to see behind the curtain of my production because there he would witness my career and personal life duking it out, ferociously yanking each other’s hair with bloodied nails and smeared mascara, shrieking, “She’s mine!” “No—she’s mine!” as I look on, mouth agape, wondering whom to devote attention to first.

So much time is spent focused on the students and what they need from us that I feel talking about work/life balance for teachers is akin to discussion of taboo topics such as money, religion, or admitting I love watching The Bachelor. Discussion of work/life balance is the proverbial elephant in the room for us. Talking about it feels too eerily close to complaining or not being grateful. It’s a daunting topic as well because I don’t want to come across as saying, “I give too much to my students. I’d like to start giving less, thank you very much.” The truth is, my goal is to reach and engage them but not at the expense of my entire brain and personal life.

In a recent Student Engagement meeting, a fellow adjunct instructor and I got to talking about work/life balance. I could feel my eyes widen as she expressed the same panicky consumption I’ve been feeling. I was finally shedding light on this dark truth! I thought this was my dirty little secret! So I’m not alone! The facilitator came by and we addressed the question to him: “How do you keep work from taking over your life?” His answer: “I’ll let you know when I figure that out!”

Oh. So the answer is there is no answer.

I understand that teaching is not just a job, it’s a life-consuming challenge, so is this tug-of-war between work and life inevitable and merely proof that I’m doing my job well with gumption? Does it prove I care? Is it the earning of my stripes? Maybe I should be concerned if I didn’t feel that tug. Maybe I’m just a newbie, and with time I’ll learn the art of gracefully billowing between work and life seamlessly like wind. I suspect not.

We devote a lot of time addressing the vital question of what we can do for students to keep them engaged, but I have to remind myself to also do things for me to take care of myself. I leave notes around my house reminding me to exercise, avoid yelling at my kids, and keep submitting my stories to publications. The truth is, however, the notes are just another façade behind the curtain. My definition of exercise is soon reduced to cracking my neck while reading essays. I inevitably lose patience with my kids, and submitting my stories to publications? It’s been a year since that’s happened.

But when I get to class I allow my students to pull, pull, pull. You have a late paper even though I said I cannot take late papers? Oh, you’re dad was sick, so yes, I’ll take it. I said no emailed papers….oh, but your printer is on the fritz? Well, okay, fine, email it to me. I find myself falling into the trap of sometimes giving them more than they’re giving me, but I rationalize it by telling myself I don’t want to be the one factor that stands in the way of their future. I am perhaps so concerned with what they need from me that I forget what I need from me.

We ask students what they want out of college and we work as hard as we can to get them there, but in the process should we allow it to deplete us? It’s a “put your oxygen mask on first before you can help others” scene. I crave oxygen sometimes. If we’re a faculty who is so committed to putting the oxygen on the students first without first putting the oxygen on ourselves, what does that say about us? We too don’t deserve and need it?

All the information at the Student Engagement conferences has been compelling and intriguing, and I’m always wondering what else I can do to make my classes come alive. There’s a teaching to-do list in my brain that feels like a hamster on a wheel: Create an example for the students; Do some more group activities, but be careful because so-and-so doesn’t like group work---think about what might reach him; Create a fresh writing exercise that gets them excited about the assignment…Then this teaching-based to-do list starts to stare down my personal to-do list: Check out summer camps for daughter—maybe they have financial aid?; I should really try incorporating more vegetables into our diet, son still cringes at broccoli but I will conquer; Find a babysitter—haven’t had a date night with the hubs in a year; Car’s still making that crazy sound—oil change?

A lot is expected from a teacher, and I take these responsibilities seriously. We need to reach the students, offer them hands-on learning experiences, engage them, excite them, light fires in their bellies, lead them, teach them to lead, challenge them with new thought, etc. I’m completely on board with this noble mission, but I need someone to teach me a thing or two about how to do this without losing myself.

Latest Publication

I had an essay of mine published in the Louisville Review last year, and it's been my goal to get back on the train of writing and getting things out there again.  After having a baby and packing up and moving our family from busy Chicago to peaceful Ohio, I've finally somewhat found the ability once again to slow down and breathe (in between working and raising 2 toddlers) and write.  I was nervous that teaching would start sucking this abililty dry for me, but the opposite has happened, thank goodness.  Teaching is a funny thing--it's not as though the information is departing and you're giving it away.  You're learning from your students and the pitfalls they face because you've smashed your face a thousand times in those same pitfalls.  Anyway, the bottom line is, I'm happy to still find even a miniscule amount of time to dedicate to writing. 
I submitted an essay for the Erma Bombeck competition, and I should be hearing about that within the next few weeks--fingers crossed!  The article I'll paste here today is for something called Faculty Forum where I work.  I'm just an adjunct, so to have my work accepted is encouraging.  My goal is to teach there full time, so my hope is that it will reach the right eyes within the college.
Happy reading and I hope spring is in the air wherever you are!
-Rebecca

Can They Hear Me Now?

Rebecca Rine-Stone

Today’s student is being pulled in several different directions: school, work, and often a family to take care of. These distractions can wear even the most dedicated student down. Juggling life is the goal of a typical Sinclair student; however, when the door closes to my classroom, life has to wait on the other side. When class begins, we are now on an island away from the mainland of information-overload insanity. And on this island there’s no cell phone reception.

Asking students to turn their cell phones off in class is giving them an opportunity to be yanked in one less direction, allowing them the chance to devote the class solely to learning. Otherwise, they fool themselves (as we all do) into thinking they can continue to do what they do on the other side of the door—multitask—a word that is highly misleading. How can a student possibly be immersed in a discussion regarding the power of a well-placed simile or metaphor if he/she is texting LMAO ur 2 right cu 2nite.

When I first switched to this cell phone-free zone of teaching, I asked myself, “Are you being an old-school ogre or what?” But I’ve since come to the conclusion that prohibiting the use of cell phones in class is not an irrational demand. Why can’t I, the person armed with the responsibility of reaching students, ask for their undivided attention? Why must a stuffy, elbow-patch-blazer-wearing stigma be attached to this very reasonable request?

That’s not to say I turn into a fire-breathing dragon when someone pulls out a cell phone. In fact, I rarely have to address this issue because the parameters are set on the first day: No cell phones allowed. They’re not needed in English class the same way ovens, blenders or circus clowns are not needed in an English class.

Although cell phones are not allowed, my classroom is anything but a media-free zone. It is an island, not Amish country. Nearly each class refers to videos, music or the Internet to draw participation from the class. I understand this is the sort of learning students are craving now and I embrace that, but cell phones have nothing to do with this technology-based learning. Delivering an active learning atmosphere that sparks an interest and engages the student is what I strive to do with technology, and cell phone usage gets in the way of this immersive learning. Cell phones are simply a distraction that I choose to take out of the equation, since I know from experience that students will often not have the self-discipline to put their phones away if they’re not asked to.

I’ve received rebuttals from students and teachers alike regarding cell phone usage, claiming that I’m not being realistic—cell phones are just a part of everyday life and they need to be accepted. I whole-heartedly accept cell phone usage outside the classroom, and I get that this is the world we now live in, but never before have there been exceptions made in the classroom for distractions simply because “that’s just how students are nowadays.” In the 1950s were students allowed to leisurely leaf through the latest Mad comic book in class?

Sure, they might be able to sit back and text if all I were doing were delivering a stagnant lecture, but I strive to do more than that, so the students’ job entails much more than sitting back and being a passive listener. They should be getting their hands on the information, collaborating with their peers to make sense of it and come to conclusions by engaging in conversation and adding insight. Prohibiting the use of cell phones doesn’t magically create a perfect classroom filled with attentive, hungry students who eagerly volunteer their thoughts—I’m not that naïve. It does, however, take away one temptation to get sidetracked and fall short of success.

Yes, students complain and let out groans of frustration as I catch their fingers reaching for their phones, but that’s okay. Hands-on learning can be uncomfortable at first because it is perhaps something new to them and it takes more vulnerability and confidence, but I hope to give them an experience that will begin to translate to other parts of their lives. I remind students they didn’t come to college to remain unchanged; they came to become stronger, more critical thinkers.

Part of the education comes from the book and our instruction, but I’d argue the other part comes from slowing down and focusing on the task at hand. This slow, purposeful attention to detail is something that is no longer inherent in our conveyer-belt world, so I add it to my list of objectives. Our attention spans have become frenetic spits and spasms because that’s the cadence of society, but I want students to come to the realization that their waning attention span is actually something they can train, mold and discipline to stay on track, blocking out Facebook updates that celebrate the fact that Katie’s dog looks great in his tutu.

Soon enough the class is over and we have to leave the island of literary respite and return to the world of nonstop chatter. Sure, when class ends, I often see a room full of hands reaching down to their pockets for their phones in anticipation as if we were in a showdown in an old Western movie. But for 50 minutes we can say we slowed down and focused on things that might otherwise be overlooked in the busy world that lurks outside the door. I hope by disconnecting, they connect with themselves and each other.

Erma Bombeck Competition

I'm submitting this essay to the Erma Bombeck Conference competition.  They're looking for writing that's in her style that speaks to everyday life.  Here it is:

“Well, before we know it, we’re going to be 80 years old with a quiet house and nothing to do but sleep, and we’ll miss all this.” This was the pep talk I gave with raised eyebrows of encouragement to my husband as we bellyached about how tired we are from working and raising two toddlers. Of course I meant this pep talk—which, really, was about as peppy as a dead puppy—to be a sobering reminder that we need to be grateful for, rather than exhausted by, the constant noise and pull of our kids because their childhoods will inevitably whip right past us. In response to my grim cheerleading, he exhaled as his lips flapped together like a deflating balloon while he held his graying head in his hands, and I was certain he was about to agree. Instead, to the thought of being elderly and slumbering in a childless house, he slowly answered, “Awesome. That sounds great.”


As it is now, our tiny house is filled with constant chatter—random, ridiculous chatter such as, “Mama, you be the robot and I’ll be the monster and we’ll have a picnic and eat donut soup and ride around on a boat with unicorns who are pirates who want to steal our peanut butter.”

Along with having virtually no quiet time, alone time also has been abolished. Today I took a shower (which alone is cause for a stadium wave) and immediately had two toddlers poking their cherub heads into the tub. My initial reaction was to get annoyed that my ten minutes of golden solitude turned into romper room, but the ominous vision of the elderly me quickly convinced me instead to embrace the company, so I turned into a “shower monster” and had them squealing in delight with my roars and thrashing of wet Medusa hair.

I’m heathen enough at times to admit I grow weary of always being needed and surrounded by noise. But I know that one day, if all goes well, I will be 80 and I will finally have alone time and quiet. I’ll lie down on my bed (my husband will be snoozing with a grin) after a day of chasing no one, wiping no one’s bottom (again, if all goes well), taking part in no silly adventures that require a tiara and spatula. I will finally find time to read a book that’s longer than 7 pages without any talking animals in it, and I’ll collapse onto the bed, not out of pure exhaustion as I do now, but out of sadness and irritation at the lifeless silence except for the ticking clock.

Ugh

This will be a quick post, I'm sure.  I found out tonight a pal of mine passed away from cancer.  He was a big part of my life when I first moved to Chicago because we worked together at Second City theatre and then eventually performed together.  We lost touch when I stopped working there and decided performing was not my cup of tea.  I have all these surreal feelings tonight because of his death.  Second City sort of marked the beginning of my adventures in Chicago.  It was this electric atmosphere filled with constant, guttural laughter.  I think the aspect that's making my head spin tonight is that a big part of that vision is now lost because of Mike's passing.  No one is exempt from death. Even a circle of laughter and jokes and people with the hunger to live life is not exempt.  I keep picturing his chair where he sat near the box office and finding it hard to swallow that time just marches on, putting someone new in that chair, new faces in the theatre, the laughter of people who have come and gone simply fade into the background only to be covered by new laughter.