Forty Five: Comfortably Mauve

 

Good morning, reader. 

Today is my forty-fifth birthday. 

I have now celebrated four more birthdays than Jane Austen who died at forty one, but death did not claim her before she penned six of the finest novels written in the English language. Because of my occupation I know the ages at which many great authors died. Austen's early death is one I think of often. I am thankful for the novels she left us and certainly wonder what else she may've written had she been given more time. Jane Austen never married and had no children, but she is a fine example of this truth: There are ample ways to leave a legacy. Sharing her legacy with a new group year after year is one thread that keeps me tied to the classroom even when all else in the classroom seems to be unraveling. 

I saw my aunt, my mother's younger sister, last month when we all met to celebrate my grandfather's ninety-ninth birthday. A decade ago I blogged when he turned eighty nine. You can read that here. 

At the birthday celebration my aunt told me she periodically checks the blog for new entries. Obviously she has been disappointed. About a week after my aunt let me know my online silence vexes her, I was discussing the Twilight series with two of my current students. If you didn't know, this year, 2025, marks the twentieth anniversary of the publication of Twilight. I was waxing nostalgic with my students about the utter joy of the 2000s when young adult authors were churning out gems and the only thing better than reading your way through a good series was making plans to see the midnight release of the films with your friends. I encouraged these young ladies to read the Twilight series, and then, as further encouragement, I shared with them this blog titled "In Defense of Twilight." I wrote this many years ago; I still stand by what I said. 

The next day my students returned to class, told me they'd read and enjoyed my thoughts on Twilight, and asked me why I don't blog as often as I once did. I think the simple answer to that question is that I do not feel the need to explain myself to people or to attempt to persuade people nearly as often as I once did.

I still have strong opinions about a variety of topics and people. I will usually share those opinions if asked (and I teach a handful of inquisitive teens who will occasionally ask), but I think one thing that has shifted in the last decade is the extent to which I am optimistic that people will listen to and be persuaded by logic and reason, and, more disconcerting, many people don't read much at all anymore. Lengthy blocks of text are not en vogue. We listen to podcasts, and we watch short reels across various social media platforms. 

A second reason I haven't blogged much lately is that, when I think back over the last few years, nearly every instance that lit a fire in me to such an extent I felt led to write, to sort out the situation for myself in writing and, yes, to attempt to persuade others to either agree with me or at least consider my perspective, involved students and/or their parents, and so I was muzzled by propriety and had to settle for a handful of subtle passive-aggressive social media hits, as one does. 

My silence is a result of a general state of being pleasantly detached or occasionally muzzled. Thankfully the majority of my days pass in the former state rather than the latter. Earlier this fall I was reading through last year's yearbook. A young lady I taught last year, a member of the 2025 graduating class, named me as her greatest inspiration at the school because I, " . . . am always so unbothered." 

I thought a lot about her statement. It made me smile; I am glad this is her perception of me. I strive for unbothered. When I am with my students, I strive for unbothered externally even when it is not the case internally because what they need maybe more than they need to learn to use a semicolon properly is an example of a steady adult. 

I don't always achieve unbothered, but it is the goal. Most of my life now is dealing with teens. Henry is currently twelve, but soon all the young people in my life, both in my home and in my classroom, will be teenagers. Often my first response to some situation they've shared with me is, "Who cares?" Teens marinate in drama at school and on their phones, a ceaseless cauldron of drama, and often they see this mirrored in the lives of adults, so they don't know how unhealthy it is. 

If everything is a big deal, and it often is with teens, then they develop no sense of what truly is a big deal, what actually matters. Let people who wish to marinate in drama continue to marinate, but, as I tell the teens (certainly my own fourteen-year-old daughter), you should remove yourself from it. Remove yourself physically, online, and emotionally. Maybe that means you are not included in everything. Maybe that means you don't immediately know who is dating whom and who cheated on whom. Maybe that means you spend some weekends alone. Again, I return to my favorite question, "Who cares?" 

If you have wronged someone, apologize. Aside from this specific situation, who cares. You can control you. That is it. You can control what you share with others, what you share online, how much time you spend on your phone, how much time and effort you put into your work, and your attitude. You have some degree of control over your health; don't ingest harmful substances, avoid addictions, make a habit of exercising, and pay attention to what you eat. Absolutely exert control over areas that are within your reach to control. 

If you've not given someone a valid reason to think ill of you, you guessed it: Who cares? Embrace time alone. Read books. Read so many books. Get to know yourself so you don't waste years attempting to shape yourself in the mold of others. Pray for discernment when dealing with people. Remember that age is not always tied to maturity. 

For the last few years I have ordered a variety of products I use from Mary Kay. One of these products is my lipstick. I kept trying different shades, some too pink for me, some a far brighter red than are suitable for a middle-aged English teacher. At some point in the last year I accepted that my favorite shade is one Mary Kay has named Mauve Moment. Mauve is a color I like very much, be it a lipstick or a shirt or a paint color. I have stopped ordering other shades of lipstick in the hope I love them. I am not a bright pink or a sultry red. I am mauve, and I am perfectly happy about this. Maybe it took me forty-five years to reach this point, but here I am. 

I am blessedly on Fall Break this week. The children and I are not expected to be at school at all this week. It is certainly the extra sleep and the extra time in my home that are responsible for my sitting and logging my thoughts. I hope this finds you well. I hope it finds you unbothered. In the absence of regular blogs with which I once spoiled you, here is a summary of things:

I am, as I mentioned, now forty five. Being an original member of the Gordon and Susan James family continues to be one of my greatest blessings. We all ("we" being the original four plus the four children my sister and I have added to the family) had a sleepover last Friday night to kick off Fall Break. 

Trey and I will celebrate our sixteenth anniversary this Friday. He still has more gray hair than I do, and we still fight about how many small dogs I want to bring into our home. We remain a well-matched pair. I note that, if you recall, I quit cutting and coloring my hair during COVID, and so the color you see is nature's doing. Gray is encroaching on me, but Trey continues to win this race by a wide margin. 

Both of my children are tall. Reagan will be fifteen in December, and Henry will turn thirteen next summer. Here are some recent photos of them. 

Here is a fairly recent one of the four of us that will give you some idea of the children's height. I think Henry has grown since this was taken earlier this year:

I still buy rugs and leather purses I absolutely do not need. There is actually a rug en route to my home as I type this. It will be a wonderful surprise for Trey. 

I continue to (attempt to) teach high school English; between cell phones that shatter attention span and AI, I truly do not know what the future holds for me personally and, on a larger and more important scale, society in general. I try to sound the alarm, but I don't feel many listen, and so I continue to steadfastly read my books — my physical books — compose my written thoughts all by myself, and encourage others to do the same so that one day when the dystopian hellscape unfolds there will be a remnant remaining who can think for themselves, who can articulate their thoughts orally and in writing without the assistance of technology, pinpricks of light in an otherwise dark world populated by people who are adrift, their mental capacity diminished after years of farming out every task to the technology gods to whom they sacrificed their potential and individuality. 

Anyway, my whole life, personal and professional, is deeply steeped in the humanities. The root word there is human. A decade ago I'd lament sixty-something essays to grade. Today I'd love a pile of essays to grade if I knew with certainty they were all written by a human. Sure, in the past I had to deal with the occasional student whose mom, grandmother, or girlfriend wrote his papers. That was an issue to address, but at least I was reading human thoughts even if the human was not my student. One day, maybe, classroom practices will adjust fully to AI, but right now we are a long way away from this. I am scrambling, and so is every English teacher with whom I speak both at the high school and the collegiate level. A generation (or perhaps multiple generations) will be lost in the scramble save a few who have the integrity and the intellectual curiosity to refuse the technology. I do not use it. At all. I cannot explain to teenagers why they should not use it and then turn around and use it myself. I also don't use it because I'd like to maintain my mental faculties as long as possible, and one way to invite decline is to ask technology to do things I can and should do myself, to summarize something when I am perfectly capable of summarizing text myself; summarizing is a skill, a necessary skill, one that keeps your mind sharp and is a crucial step in the learning process. 

Perhaps I do need to blog more often. Truly so many things are well in my world, but day in and day out I am vexed by the matter of AI. I have resigned myself to work with students who want to do the work and hope the others pick up a few tips here and there that might serve them well in the future. I do not have the time or the energy or the resources to fight every skirmish in the AI War. The consequences won't be fully realized for many years. The first group to have access to this technology is still in college; they are not yet performing operations or attempting to build buildings and bridges. 

There is no magic formula in education, no new curriculum that will solve the ever-increasing issues in the classroom. Many of the issues begin years before students enter the classroom, certainly the high school classroom. Where the humanities are concerned, students need to read, and they need to write. You will never improve your writing significantly if you do not read. Seeing language used correctly and used well, used cleverly and creatively, is the best teacher. Students do not need gimmicks, colorful papers or screens, complicated group projects, or any of the revolving circus tent of tricks sometimes used to attempt to mask the fact that students increasingly have no attention span, read little to nothing, and submit written assignments composed by AI.

I will, the Lord willing, return to school next Monday as the calendar demands, my mauve lipstick in place. I will soon read and discuss Frankenstein with my AP Literature students. Oh, if Mary Shelley could see us now. Shelley warns us about the dangers of creating something without forethought, without ethical considerations, never imagining the creation will one day devour the creator. 

My book club remains important to me; they are wonderful ladies (who read), and I love them. This year our theme is houses. What does this mean? Well, it means every book we put on this year's list features a house that plays a pretty significant role in the novel. Here are the best books we've read this year:

I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith 

Homecoming by Kate Morton

Keeping the House by Ellen Baker 

I am currently enjoying October's book, The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield. November's book is Wuthering Heights. Most of us have read Emily Bronte's masterpiece at least once, but we've never read it together as a book club, and it was seemingly impossible to keep it off this year's list given our theme. We love a good theme, and this year's has been a smashing success. 

I have much for which to be thankful, certainly including celebrating another birthday. It is true that the older you get the more you appreciate and sink into the everyday, the seemingly mundane. There are wild black-eyed-Susans everywhere right now; I brought a few inside. 

I took these below on my walk last night. 

I will return to this space as time allows. I remain a fan of long-form writing. I think the move away from using the Internet as a digital newspaper where people wrote, shared, read, and processed essays and lengthy news pieces to this current state of video clips and quick, hyperbolic social media hits is a tragedy responsible in part for our divisive, conspiracy-addled political environment where few are armed with accurate information presented in context but everyone is yelling.

When I do return, you can be assured it is me. For better or worse, every word spilled on this blog since its inception in 2011 has been mine; I claim them all.

AZ