Gregarious Expressions

This was the line that stopped me:

“Ultimately, for our society, this comes down to whether we believe in the potential of humans with as much conviction as we believe in the potential of A.I.”

It begins the third to last paragraph in the latest opinion piece predicting the importance of “soft skills” training in our artificial intelligence-dominated future.

The guest essay “When Your Technical Skills Are Eclipsed, Your Humanity Will Matter More Than Ever” by Aneesg Raman, workforce expert at LinkedIn, and Maria Flynn, president of Jobs for the Future ran in The New York Times on Feb. 14, 2024, like a Valentine to many humanities professors like myself who anxiously await the rest of the world to catch up to what we’ve known all along. Our future depends on the arts and communication, critical thinking, and honest self (and social) study.

In the second to last paragraph, the writers quote Columbia University president Minouche Shafik:

“In the past, jobs were about muscles. Now they’re about brains, but in the future, they’ll be about the heart.”

Artificial Intelligence will not eliminate a need for training and guided study in the Humanities. Quite the opposite.

I recount this as an introduction to a recent article about the Bachelor of Arts in Professional Studies English Writing Program at Lackawanna College in Scranton. Co-Authored by Assistant Professor in Philosophy and Religious Studies John Baldino and Lackawanna College junior Victoria Bogdanski, the DiscoverNEPA.com article begins, “The humanities are thriving at Lackawanna College where students are preparing for careers in professional writing and related fields.”

There is room for more thriving. Lackawanna is one of the five schools where I am currently teaching classes. I’ve been there for more than seven years, teaching courses in the humanities department and the writing program, specifically. I’ve felt few satisfactions greater than watching my students go on to succeed in life. I share this article because Lackawanna’s writing B.A. was launched in 2018, and still feels like a well-kept secret. A little exposure is in order.

Our writing faculty is inspired, compassionate, and dedicated. We are professionals actively contributing to our craft and our communities. The school’s articulation agreements with Marywood and Wilkes leading to “seamless” transition to graduate programs are an attractive plus. The cost of attending Lackawanna is significantly lower than most schools in the area but this is not a reflection of quality. It’s about accessibility and the school’s mission of providing “a quality education to all persons who seek to improve their lives and better the communities in which they live.” (Lackawanna.edu) The College was founded in 1894, as a business college to educate, in large part, breaker boys from the coal mines. Later, the college trained women professionals and returning WWII vets. It evolved into the non-profit known as Lackawanna Junior College in 1957, and dropped the “Junior” in 2001.

My immigrant ancestors mined coal here in the anthracite region. Their children and grandchildren served in the armed forces in World War II, Vietnam, and the Gulf. I decided to raise my daughters here because I am proud of this hardworking heritage. It is because of the education that I earned through study and scholarship that I was able to raise my girls alone, a single mom for as long as they can remember.

Now that the greatest disruptions of the coronavirus pandemic have (hopefully) passed, Lackawanna’s writing program is poised to grow into a well-known and highly-regarded foundational program for technical, non-fiction, and creative writers ready to innovate in traditional and new media forms. A renewed esteem for the humanities should encourage students to pursue their passions for expression and connection that computers can’t copy. We need the next generation to carry on asking the hard questions. Who are we, how did we get here, where are we going, and what does it mean to be a human being in this wild, unpredictable, brief, beautiful, fragile, breathtaking, savage, dangerous world?

-ag

Feb. 18, 2024

In the moment, I said it had happened on Wednesday
but today is Wednesday
so it must have been Monday
or maybe even yesterday. I haven’t been sleeping well. The lines are blurring.
It’s a little embarrassing to admit how difficult it’s been to do so many small things these past six months – without the support I never took for granted but found easy to rely on … the simplest tasks have overwhelmed me.
Today, I’m finally taking my car in for an inspection too many months past due. I am terrified. Will it be done in time for me to teach classes on Friday? Tomorrow I can Uber around town but then … How do other people handle these things? What surprises will the mechanics find that I’ll have to pay for? Do I have enough? I know that autism makes these uncertainties harder for me than they are for other people. There is also PTSD. A lifetime of financial instability and chronic stress exposing my raw nerves despite the self-care measures I’ve cultivated.
I’ve been wondering if I should be allowed to live alone. I am not prepared for my father to move back to Alabama (later this year?) and I can’t really talk to him about it because I don’t want him to feel bad about leaving me. He’s already spent much of his life regretting not being there. He deserves to live out the rest of his life in peaceful retirement.

Let’s say it was yesterday because that was an especially difficult day to get through … for no good reason. Little stresses I should easily be able to overcome. But I burned out early – filing a complaint against the car insurance company because PennDot wants to fine me for unknowingly driving without the insurance I didn’t know had been canceled because I thought I made up the missed payment in time. As soon as I learned, I got a new policy. But the computers don’t care and people always think poor people are lying. Then, on a roll, applying for assistance with the gas bill and for medical assistance because I’m going to need help. Someone to talk to. The feelings are more than I am equipped to handle alone. What happens when it gets worse before it gets better? Haven’t I already learned this the hard way? I can’t just sit in paralysis and wait for my life to implode. It’s more likely to collapse in than blow up these days, but damage by any other name … By the time I got to school, I was already fragile.

I woke feeling weak and defeated, crying, after a dream I couldn’t find anyone to drive me to a hospital in the Lehigh Valley (90 minutes away) for surgery that required an overnight stay. The doctor said I wasn’t allowed to drive myself home. The dream was a series of rejections. One after another – the only people I had to turn to were not able to be there for me.

Awake, I knew this dream wouldn’t happen because I didn’t even have health insurance. Haha. No one was going to operate on me any time soon. This is the fear that forces us to endure the humiliation of asking for help. After class, I rested all night. Felt a little better this morning.

And then, after class today, a student asked to be excused in advance from Friday’s class. He has to drive his dad to the hospital in New York for surgery. He’s going to have to stay overnight. No one else can do it.

I teared up instantly. Managed not to cry until I made it back to the adjunct office but the swell of emotion was apparent. I told the student about my dream. I appreciated him for stepping up. Told him it was important to be there for people. “Just send me an email so I don’t forget.” As if I could after this. I used to put so much faith in coincidences. Saw signs where nature hadn’t intended a message. It’s a little sad to see I don’t put stock in mystical moments the way I used to. I feel cold. A chill where there used to be thrill.

I’ve taken a precious hour to type through these thoughts. Hoping that in this purge of words the tears will evaporate and despite swollen eyes and fatigue, I will feel lighter for not avoiding the pain.

Chinese New Year is on Saturday. It’s the Year of the Dragon. I have many dragons to left confront even though I’ve been fighting them my entire life. I want to be the dragon – bold and lucky. More prosperous. The seventy-hour work week is not sustainable. I’ve been saying this since I started grad school in 2017. Seven years later, I still haven’t figured out how to work less and survive. I’ve felt the toll of it shaving years off my life but I continue to fight. It’s natural to have bad days. Bad weeks. Bad months. I’m still not good at asking for help but I’m better at it. There is less shame these days. More self-love. Despite the chill, I do believe it’s not too late for good things to happen. This alone is a victory.

On the first day of College Writing, I offered my students an edible metaphor. Homemade cookies baked from scratch by me or processed generics from the dollar store. I can cite the source of every ingredient I used and even provide the recipe. I can’t vouch for Lil’ Dutch Maid’s artificially flavored Butter Rings which I liken to generative AI text. Sure, computers can make something that looks like an essay but no one wants to read that. We want quality words baked from scratch with love by a person who cares about sharing ideas that mean something. Make it worth the calories.

The first time I tasted Balsamic vinegar was at a dinner party at my first-year college advisor’s house in Madison, NJ. I would go on to take French classes with her after I declared my theatre major and had to choose a new advisor. But she was huge in that year as I tried to figure out who I could be in the world away from home. It was probably the first time I had lettuce other than iceberg, too.

Thank you Dr. Marie-Pascale Pieretti for showing me how a professor can nurture her students. The texts we read in our freshman seminar were the hardest I’ve ever had to read. The course was something like “Signs and symbols in the Nouvelle Vague movement of French Film.” Semiotics. Linguistics. What?! We worked hard, though. We learned about things I couldn’t have imagined existed back in Moscow, PA.

And then she rewarded us with salad! I’m sure something else was served but all I remember is red leaf and that simple balsamic and olive oil dressing. Letting the plant sing. No need for toppings to weigh down the leaf or distract from that surprising flavor.

I had grown up eating casseroles made with Campbell’s cream of … soups. Meatloaf. Hamburger Helper. BBQ in the summer. Seasonings came out of packets – ranch, Lipton onion, gravy, etc. An occasional chicken soup or goulash. Mom worked. She didn’t have the time or budget to gourmet.

It’s okay. I’m not angry with her or anything.

It positioned me to appreciate all of the wonderful things I would go on to explore. I’ve learned to taste everything (except bugs LOL) and that quality ingredients are worth the price. I believe the honey crisp apple cider is worth the extra $2.

Just because I’m eating alone today doesn’t mean I shouldn’t eat well. There’s a roast in the oven and I’m about to sauté some baby bellas. The salad is simple. I need to nurture myself so that I can give my best to the students currently under my care. I’m grateful to have the excuse. -ag

Be sure to add our Common Play Factory site and socials @ dramastruction.com to keep up on news about Maureen McGuigan’s play Remember You Must Die: A Comedy, premiering at the Scranton Fringe Festival this October. The play runs Thursday, Oct. 5 through Saturday, Oct. 7 at 8:30 p.m. with an additional matinee performance on Oct. 7 at 4 p.m. Tickets are only $15 and are available at ScrantonFringe.org.

I’ve been working with Maureen for months as a dramaturg as she’s woven her life stories into dramatic shape and edited the script into a tight 45-minute, Fringe-length work. Now, I get to put my director hat on and help her rehearse her performance and presentation of the play. Not trying to sell you too hard here, but I’d be amiss if I didn’t mention our gratitude to Jason Smeltzer who will perform music for the show. Yea!

There are a lot of other shows on the Fringe menu. We encourage you to check out the schedule and see as many shows as you can!

Sharing the Scranton, PA, references I stumble upon in pop culture and the arts has become a hobby of mine since we used to track such mentions at the (now defunct) electric city weekly newspaper long before The Office came to town.

After years of reading Lorrie Moore’s “How to Become a Writer” with my students, I finally got around to the rest of the author’s magnificent short story collection Self-Help (1995) last week. I was shocked to discover the prominent role Scranton plays in “To Fill.” In this story set in Philadelphia, “Scranton” comes to represent Tom’s affair. He uses the name of the city to refer to his mistress, rather than sully her given name, Julia. The other woman, we eventually learn, is a poet who works as a teacher in Scranton. “Scranton” soon becomes a dirty word in the mouth of our narrator, Tom’s wife Riva. The city’s name is henceforth equated with rejection and betrayal.

Here is the first mention.

“The woman in the health food store, I believe, is slowly losing her mind. Every time I go in there, she is slumped on the wooden stool behind the register more dazed, more sad than before. She recognizes me less.

Today, I am the only one in there and when I say, ‘Excuse me. Can I get two pounds of bulgar wheat?’ she continues to stare at the coconut shampoos, her legs frozen in cross, her back a curved mound beneath the same pink-grey sweater she drapes like a small cape over her shoulders. Finally, she says, ‘Huh?,’ but never looks up.

‘Bulgar wheat,” I say gently. ‘Coarse. Like last week?’

‘Yeah,’ she pulls at the sweater then goes through some sort of pelvic swivel which tilts the stool just enough to spill her down and out of it.

She scuffs around the counter to the bulgar wheat, reaches for a scoop, a paper bag, and then bursts into sobs. I try to think of what to do. I quickly grab three coconut shampoos to help out her business a little and then go to her, put my arm around her and tell her about Tom’s secret affair last year in Scranton. And how I visited him there as a surprise and learned of the whole thing and got drunk and stuck postage stamps all over myself and tried to mail myself home. That always cheers people up when I tell it in “Scarves and Handbags.”

She smiles, shuffles over to the register, charges me for four, not three, coconut shampoos, and the bulgar wheat.”

-excerpt from “To Fill” by Lorrie Moore.

Sometimes we need art to absorb toxic angst lest we poison ourselves with anger. -ag

Simply saying I turned 51 last week does not convey the heft of these years I’ve accumulated.

I am officially old enough to sit around and talk about the old days.

It was kind of Lawrence to have me as a guest on his revived public access program “Stories, Wisdom & Recipes.”

Find it on Electric City Television via ECTV.Network or watch via YouTube, below.

peace & blessings -ag