that his attempt at gender neutral language is appreciated, though it is so forced as to sound... awkward.
1) english is an ordinally hierarchical language and, thus, "his or her," while seemingly PC on the surface, actually implies a hierarchy with "his" being above "her."
2) grammar is fluid and goes to usage. thus, it has become not only PC but *grammatically acceptable* to say "everyone is special in *their* own way." "Their" being an acceptable gender-neutral single pronoun. (Actually has been since Jane Austen, apparently.)
When cleaning up this morning, I found the following little poem that, I assume, was given to Sam with his prayer rock:
to translate becuz the image is fuzzy:
I'm your little prayer rock and this is what I'll do Just put me on your pillow till the day is through Then turn back the covers and climb into your bed and WHACK... your little prayer rock with hit you on your head. Then you will remember as the day is through To kneel and say your prayers as you wanted to, Then when you are finished just dump me on the floor, I'll stay there through the night-time to give you help once more. When you get up the next morning CLUNK... I stub your toe So you will remember your prayers before you go. Put me back upon your pillow when your bed is made, And your clever little prayer rock will continue in your aid. Because your heavenly Father cares and loves you so, He wants you to remember to talk to him... you know.
Here's what I have to say:
1) Creep. E. 2) Sam's version was actually amazingly close. 3) Is anyone else disturbed by how the poem is both violent and singsongy all at once? 4) And why does God sound so mean? Almost gleeful to punish you when you forget to pray? 5) And don't get me started on the rhyme scheme.
I think I actually had a prayer rock as a little kid. I don't remember having the creepy poem to go with it, though. Fascinating.
Sam rushed over to me after church today. "Mommy, Mommy! Look at this!" He held up a rock half the size of his head.
"Wow!" I said. "that's a big rock!"
Sam said, "Do you know what you do with this?"
"No. What do you do?"
"Well, you hit yourself on the head with it. And then, after your head splits open, you throw it at your feet. And then, it lands on your toe and you scream and your toe gets all bruised. Then you throw it on the floor. Then you PRAY!"
Maybe I just haven't figured it out yet, but I used to be able to spy on my site MUCH better. And I really LIKED it. Now I'm just getting cranky because it's a whole lot harder to link IP addresses to cities and to track who's on the site. Good for you, hard for obsessive-me. ARCHGH!
I'm driving toward a mountain when suddenly the moon starts zigging crazy across the sky and I think... "Hmmm.... gravitational anomaly... Dang it! That stupid super conductor really did make a black hole and now we only have 50 days to live!!" So I drive home and watch a big plane crash and then turn into a fire monster and casually think, well, I hope the boys get out of the house! And I go to pick up Lily. But if the world is really going to end, I think I'd better have a red dress. So I stop at my favorite store and look for bargains because the dollar sux right now. But as soon as I get a very unflattering-but-I-had-to-buy-it-because-apparently-it-was-what-my-mom-was-wearing-when-she-got-married-red-dress, my lower back starts throbbing and I go, "Oh, *&^%$, I'm in labor. Perfect timing."
For example, last night, I dreamed that I went to church in Paris, where they talked about sex instead of Jesus and then they put my baby in a casserole dish of rice and paraded her around the room. I turned to my friend, Janet, who had super thick hair down to her butt and was two and a half months pregnant (both things surprising for those who know her) and we just shook our heads and said, "Oh, my. That is strange. Well, should we go make jewelry in the bathroom?" Which we did. While I told her about my train trip through Germany's Rain Forest.
Then, like most mornings, the dream ended suddenly when a real-life baby butt landed on my face and a binkie-faced Lily hit my head with the TV remote and said, "Mommy, wake up. I want to watch Caillou."
For those who aren't familiar with Caillou, it is the brain child of a seriously warped Canadian (not all Canadians are warped, of course; but this one sure is) who decided to try and convince all the children of the world that tantrum throwing and crazy whining will be rewarded with fun crafts!
Because if I learned one thing from the Advanced Science Writing class I taught this summer, it's that scientists are always saying disturbing things like, "Well, truth is I don't know how this works," or "Well, we can't be *entirely* sure that this won't create a black hole..." and you should prettymuch be terrified ALL THE TIME.
My plan is to spend tonight eating an entire box of Krispy Cremes and then to run around my backyard in my underwear (just because I can).
We talk about "persona" in my writing class. It usually takes students a minute to grasp what it means, but it usually helps them when I say, "Your *person* is who you *are.* Your *persona* is who a stranger reading your facebook page *thinks* you are." An author chooses to reveal or not reveal certain kinds of information about herself, and the information is not always reliable, comprehensive, or even honest.
I thought I had a pretty good concept of persona. (Better than my students, at least. Right?) But then yesterday, I was reading this blog. When the author revealed information about herself, I thought it was reliable. (And if you want to know, I was DEEPLY, DEEPLY distressed.) But then I found out that the subject (the person I thought was the author, herself) of the blog is a completely fictional character. (This is when I started laughing.)
It made me rethink my gut idea about persona. Because it turns out that when people tell me who they are (like on a blog), I automatically *believe* them. It's my default position.
But persona is a poetic construction manipulated for rhetorical goals. (not always in a bad way--like your resume; you want it to make you look good, but you don't want to be found out as a fraud, so you usually choose stuff that is both true *and* flattering.)
But who you are and who people *think* you are... well, those are completely different people.