Junior Faculty

The first day I heard I'd have an office, I was ecstatic. I get a job and an office I don't have to share with 15 other people? I just couldn't wait. I called every week I could, asking if my keys were ready, if the furniture was moved in, if the paint had dried. Finally, I got the room number. The person who gave me my office assignment laughed a little when she gave me the keys, but seeing the confusion on my face, she pulled herself together. "Well," she said as lightly as she could, "No one will come to bother you there."

I did not know what that meant.

At least, I did not know what that meant until I moved in. Andrew and I loaded about 6 heavy boxes of books and other paraphernalia and set off for the fifth floor of the building where I work. What with required ADA compliance, I didn't even consider the possibility that the elevator only stopped at the fourth. I should have.

Forty-five minutes later, all of the books had been hauled upstairs to a stifling attic with no air conditioning. The ends of the hallway were littered with "take me" books and discarded waste bins and broken filing cabinets. The lights were out.

But I didn't care. I was excited to see what the view from the fifth floor looked like. And, anyway, I'm healthy. I can take stairs.

I flung open my office door and was greeted with a view of . . . the roof. A rusted nasty debris-littered roof whose slopes and angles hindered any view of the city or its river. My furniture was peeling, the handles on my office chair brown with rust. My carpet was filthy, and my desks and bookshelf were covered in a fine layer of gray dust, no doubt courtesy of a long stay in a storage building. I felt as if someone had poked a hole in my elation.

I channel my mother, and wonder what she'd do. She certainly wouldn't whine, not after all it took to get to this dusty attic office. So with Andrew's support and the downtown Ikea, we reconstructed it. And these were our results.

 

   

The Lawn Seats

I have a short bucket list that contains some pretty strange but not wholly unusual things. See the pyramids of Egypt. Go scuba diving. Try windsurfing. Visit Italy. See a Bollywood film in India. See Dave Matthews move his feet in a live concert.

So I crossed off the latter last night, when we went to the Dave Matthews concert and sat in the lawn seats. I should say it's been 10 years since I've been to a concert, and the last time I attended one, I made up some incontestable truth about seeing live concerts only when you could sit in the lawn seats. I must've been thinking something about stars, romance, a cool Tampa Bay breeze.

Apparently a lot can change in 10 years. Suddenly the people who helped you create that community of music when you were 20 -- those people who let you know you belong in the world because you all know the same words to the same weird songs -- at 30 become slovenly naked weed-smoking drunks. When did this happen? Young twentysomethings tripped over my beach blanket and poured margaritas on my bare toes, giggling as they did so. Rather than apologize, they did things that didn't belong to their generation at all, like yelling "right on" and holding lighters in the air. One guy came up to us and said, "Have you seen Waldo? WHERE'S WALDO?!" which wasn't as strange at that point in the evening as it was obnoxious.

The people my age weren't much better; they arrived harried from rush hour and sloppy-drunk to make up for it. Most of them spent much of the concert thumbing through their blackberries, pretending to be bored. If they weren't doing that, they were yelling at the spouses they never should've married in the first place, and saying things like, "Well if you'd REMEMBERED it, I wouldn't have to go and buy one now, would I?" and "You've turned into such a SCHMUCK."

This pretty much ruined my idea of romance and cool breezes and recapturing the feelings I had when I first listened to DMB about 15 years ago. My conclusion? You probably think it has something to do with getting older or becoming jaded but I have decided to adamantly deny what is probably the truth. Instead? I've learned to just give in and buy a seat.

Community Supported Agriculture

I used to dread grocery shopping. Even at midnight on a Thursday, Wal-Mart, which was often my only choice in the small towns I lived in, was unpleasant. The aisles were narrow, the carts large, and the people pushy. Children screamed and wallowed in the floor, begging for some toy they didn't need. The vegetables were rotten by the time I brought them home, and the chicken I marinated and pounded was still sinewy by the time it reached the dinner table. But I now know grocery shopping doesn't have to be this way.

Because of the growing interest in organically grown foods, Community Supported Agriculture, or CSA, is getting more and more notoriety, even though it's certainly nothing new. CSA programs allow people to buy a share of their local farmers' crops, and in return, they can pick up (or have delivered) fresh, organically-grown produce at 1/2 the cost of what they'd pay for the same products in their local Whole Foods store.

CSAs work something like this: you pay a fee (in my area, half-memberships are $400 and full are $725) that provides you with about 4 bags of fresh food -- this includes veggies, fruit, and herbs, and occasionally chicken, eggs, flowers, and cheese -- either every other month (for a half membership) or every month (for a full) during the growing season. In Florida, that can be year round, or, typically, November through May.

The benefits are endless. Not only do these programs make buying fresh, healthy food affordable but they also mean you're sure to buy in season. This means your lettuce will always taste like lettuce, rather than styrofoam, because you won't be trying to eat some chemically altered lettuce-like product shipped in from Chile in the middle of January. It means you'll be doing something for the environment without even trying; by not paying someone for the gasoline and manpower to ship lettuce in January from Chile to your grocery store, you've helped, in a small but significant way, minimize your carbon footprint.

But most important of all, you get to know exactly where your food comes from because you buy it directly from the farmer. The added bonus, in my opinion, is that many CSAs require you put in 4 volunteer hours (over the course of the year) in order to join the program. That means you pull weeds, dig in the dirt, harvest the crops -- you get to have a hand in growing what you eat, all the while getting to know the people responsible for growing the food that sustains you and your family.

And beyond all of those liberal, granola-crunching reasons, it's pleasant to get your groceries this way. The farmers/merchants are happy to be handing over their hard work to people who appreciate it, and as a result, they're usually happy to see you (as opposed to the stockguy at Wal-Mart, who just wants his next break). Many CSAs also run farmer's markets, and so when you pick up your groceries (if you don't have them delivered -- how awesome!), you might find music or artists, which you can enjoy while sampling goods like freshly-baked focaccia or organic herbed cheeses.

Sound appealing? Go to www.localharvest.org to find a CSA or farmer's market in your area.

And Goldilocks Said, "This porridge is just right."

This is the pipe organ from the United Methodist Church of Hyde Park. It may seem like some gaudy tool for an ostentatious religion to you, but to me, it was a very good sign. That is because music is a very important part of worship to me. People can screw up religion without trying very hard at all. Pastors can preach temperance and have a drinking problem. Youth ministers can profess a dedication to family values while having an affair. Congregants can be conniving, jealous, vindictive, and never miss a church service. But music doesn't cheat, lie, or scheme, and what you get out of it is up to you. This church had beautiful music.

I glance around this mid-sized church and see -- to my relief -- stained-glass windows. The educational tool for the poor, the illiterate, the young. Now an archaic symbol to many, to me stained glass represents the church's desire to reach everyone, not just the elite. I feel like I can breathe again.

I also see many different faces, many of whom I did not see in the other churches we've tried. I see old and young, children and twentysomethings, white, black, Asian, Latino/a, a myriad of people. The visiting pastor is an African-American woman; one of the regular pastors is a female. A good sign! I feel like squeezing the stranger sitting nearest to me, and asking them, "Is this home?" But I refrain. Wouldn't want to seem like that crazy fellow from Idlewild, now, would I?

The sermon is about food. The pastor discusses the bread and fish miracle, and interprets it to mean we are spiritually fed, and we are often materially blessed; she encourages us to feed others in any way we can. She then outlines ministries in the church that would allow us to do just this. I am excited by her practical application of scripture, by her call to make the community we live in better, and by her specific suggestions outlining how to do just that.

My experience at Hyde Park reminded of Goldilocks's porridge experiment. The first was too hot, the second too cold, but the third was just right, and so she ate it up. And so did we.

Try #2: The Unitarian Universalist Church

After the megachurch "incident," as I would like to call it, we needed something much more broad-minded. Fewer references to women in the kitchen and fewer crazy people writing letters from Jesus. The criteria was loose but important. We decide to try the Unitarian Universalist church.

For those who aren't familiar, the Universalist churches welcome all faiths. They believe that all religions worship the same God but call him/her by different names. I am, at heart, a Universalist, so I had high hopes for this service.

In many ways, I was not disappointed. Despite its strange outward appearance -- this church was a large dome, actually more bizarre looking than the one in this picture -- the congregation was warm and inviting. People came early to talk to each other and to visitors, and they stayed late to reflect on what they'd learned in the service and to share coffee with each other. Universalists are against proselytizing, so no one tried to convert or pressure us. And the highlight of the service occurred when, before the "joys and concerns," the pastor reminded her liberal audience that "just because the microphone is available doesn't mean this is a time for political rants or polemics." That. Was. Awesome. "So this is where liberal democrats and academics go to church," I thought to myself. And all this time, I've been looking for other people who think like I do, who embrace all faiths as different interpretations of the same story. It was quite refreshing.

But it wasn't a fit, not wholly. To begin, unitarians (not universalists) shun the trinity. No matter how open-minded of a raving liberal professor I am, the trinity is a very important concept to me. And because the universalists welcome all faiths, the service worked very hard not to step on anyone's toes. While the principle is wonderful and welcoming to me, the practice translates into an entire service where nothing definitive is ever actually said. The hymns were purposefully vague; because no one worships the same way, the songs could only discuss the universe, space, and family. And "sameness." The sermon talked about the parking lot growing weedy outside, and lamented the fact that the Universalist church rarely attracted members who gave money. The credos expressed the idea that we are all one, but it was not a credo in that it professed any one belief. And for some reason, some stubbornness ingrained in me, this irked me a little.

In sum -- I appreciated the warmth, open-mindedness, and intelligence of the Unitarian Universalist church. But I'm in a new place, in a new job, meeting new people; I long for just a dash of something familiar. So for next time: the First United Methodist Church of Hyde Park.

My Visit to a Megachurch

We needed a church. So we decided to try Idlewild Baptist at the recommendation of one of Andrew's family friends.

When we walk in, the sanctuary is the size of a collegiate basketball stadium. There are no stained-glass windows or hymnals; in their place are two gigantic megascreens, a 75-person orchestra, and a balcony that must hold at least 300 people in a choir. The megascreens make me have palpitations, but I breathe, and tell myself to give it a good college try. They advertise a Starbucks coffee shop just outside of the sanctuary. I choke down a scream.

The deacons come forward, streaming down 6 church aisles all in nearly-matching suits. They are all men. This makes me wonder. I take a good look at the four-person ministerial team. All men as well. Strike one.

The preacher steps up to the pulpit. He is a visiting speaker and the president (or maybe former president) of the Southern Baptist Convention. No. Please no. He begins with an anecdote, and I think, at least it isn't a joke and he doesn't mention football. I try to stay open-minded. He makes a crack about women and cooking. I restrain from volleying one of those stubby pencils toward the megastage. His sermon goes something like this: Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Buzz words synonymous with salvation, damnation, Hell, and Born Again. A smatter of guilt. A pinch more of guilt. And it concludes with "Turn to your neighbor and tell him or her that you know you're saved by Jesus." Strike two.

I peel myself from my seat, where I've tried to remain as low and still as possible to remain unnoticed. My tactic has not worked. Crazy McCrazy, apparently a regular congregant, sidles up to us with an envelope in his hand. He says, "I've had my eye on you since I walked in. This is for you." We wait to open the note until we're in the car. Apparently McCrazy has channeled Jesus, as his scrawled note is signed by none other than Christ himself, and in it he insists that Andrew is David (a philandering man-whore?) and I am Esther. Strike three.

Next week: the Universalist Church of Tampa. Updates to follow.

Carl, the Neighborhood Alligator, & How I Accidentally Ended up at the Social Security Office in Florida

Moving is irksome. But for us, it was particularly adventurous because we had to drive 19 hours across the country at 45 miles an hour in a Penske truck with 5 animals.  We took 2 days to complete our move to Florida, and along the way we stopped at a Best Western that promised it took pets.  I'm not sure it knew what it was getting with the Tillmans.  We had Brinkley, the 75 lb Golden Retriever, Sierra, a dog half his size, and 3 devil cats, one of which found great amusement in waiting on top of the entertainment center for a dog to walk by to drop claws-first on its back, making the dog bark, the other dog howl, and the rest of the cats hiss, spit, and knock over furniture.  We were tired.  The front desk calls.  "Do you have cats, too? You didn't say you had cats too."  I lie. "Nope, no cats here." Worm gets next to the phone and answers for himself: Mrrrrrow. Mrow! Mrowwwww!  "Nope," I reiterate. "We don't like cats." 

We get on the road and arrive in Florida what feels like 3 years later.  As we drive into our subdivision, I pass all kinds of interesting creatures: an ibis, something that lives in a nest the size of an SUV, colorful lizards and frogs, and, yes, an alligator, sunning in the lake not 2 blocks from my house.  People pass him as if he is a mailbox. We name him Carl. 

For mundane reasons I won't explain, we have to get our licenses changed over quickly and it is one of the first tasks we undertake.  I wish we hadn't.  I go to the DMV with an appointment, all of my paperwork filled out, and a box full of every piece of paper they might ask for and some they won't.  I'm ultra-prepared. I'm psyched; I'm there early and there's no wait!  Andrew breezes through the process and I prepare to as well, but there's a woman who has it out for me that day.  "The social security office says June 1 isn't your birthday," she says.  She seems almost happy to follow up with, "You'll have to go there to straighten that out."  "No!" I say. "I've ordered a passport with that card; there has to be a mistake on this end."  "Nope," she insists and sends me to the 9th circle of hell. 

If you were wondering what that is -- it's the social security office in the Old People Capital of the US.  Hours of waiting. By the time my number is called, I'm furious.  The woman behind the counter pulls up my record and says, "There's no problem here. Everything is correct."  I want to stab someone in the eye.  I drive 1/2 an hour back to the DMV, where a new guy pulls my SS# up on the screen and says, "Why did you go through all of that? Your birthdate was fine all along!"  

Andrew, thinking himself immune from this insanity, inwardly chuckled at me, I'm sure of it.  At least, he does until we get all the way home, and he finds out his new name in FL is "Andrew Tllman." A big ugly misprint on his shiny new license.   I love moving.