​​Going chronologically, I stopped hearing from my business colleagues around two months ago. I was 1/3 of the leadership team for a startup company. I was naturally on the edge of a lot of communication because the other two were in the same location, while I was remote. Sometimes, and with increasing frequency, it felt like I was left out intentionally. This was addressed a few times – as recently as July – with some improvements, but they never held. Keeping things very vague, this most recent silence coincided with a change in our website hosting service that caused me to lose access to my work email. I felt good about not reaching out to address this known problem.
 
Proceeding as if we are done feels like the natural path. While I really wanted us to succeed, I’ve been looking for a clear end to the limbo for a while. Now I’ve got it!

​The friend ghosting me is more…ugh. We'll call him Peter. I guess it happened the last Saturday in September, although I didn’t realize for several days more that that was the last time I’d heard from him. We usually text daily; mostly memes, songs, shenanigans at work, assorted nonsense like that. But he just stopped. It isn’t uncommon for Peter to skip a few days if he’s busy or something, but this was different. Then, I had that seizure (see the “Setbacks” portion of this post) and, after that, I didn’t have it in me to figure out what was going on with a grown man who’s incredibly eloquent and gifted with words, yet refusing to use them.
 
I really don’t know what happened. Two days earlier, we had a great night when our team won trivia. All I can think of is that in the final messages, he sent a video I didn’t love, and I made a stupid joke in response that didn’t land. In retrospect, I can see that situation striking nerves and leading to miscommunication.
 
Peter openly admits he’ll go out of his way to avoid conflict. While I’m not particularly confrontational, I absolutely know the benefits of facing and addressing unpleasant and difficult things. Many of the best and most important experiences of my life have come from facing the hard thing. (See the examples in this post, especially #4. Yes, this Peter is the Peter from #3.) I understand needing to work up the courage to face something, but I don’t understand making the intentional choice to miss out on that goodness.
 
My analytical side wants to delve into all of our interactions and fix things, but that is not for me to do. That’s taking on work that belongs to someone else. I’m only responsible for what I know. I think I will low-key reach out to him once I finish something I’m behind on completing. Peter knows I’m making it, and I am generally someone who finishes what I start. Anything beyond that is up to him.
 
Overall, I am okay. When it comes down to it, neither the personal nor professional ghostings surprise me, but I am incredibly letdown. These were all individuals I trusted and still do care about, but they have now chosen not to know me. The direct sting of bad news hurts, but this vague poison of avoidance harms…

On a completely different note, over the summer, I grew the most successful batch of butternut squash I’ve yet accomplished. One big factor was lucking out with the weather. It wasn’t insanely hot and dry. Another was learning that winter squash does well on a trellis. I learned this a little late, and I already had some lengthy vines. Still, my brother helped me build a teepee-like frame out of fallen branches I could lift the vine onto. The frame proved too short, so I added some PVC pipe, additional sticks, and a hula hoop. It became quite the sculpture and was well-received by the neighborhood mockingbirds and cardinals.
 
Meanwhile, I’m regularly smashing squash bugs and removing egg-laden leaves, and the vines are producing squash. I lost count, but it was definitely more than 15 large ones. I gave many away, others were damaged, but one looked rather nice. On something of an impulse back in June or July, while it was still growing, I announced I was going to enter it in the County Fair.
 
On September 14, along with some of my mom’s fabulous peppers and green beans, the cardigan I made her, and a wooden lamp I made a while back, I did.
 
I don’t have words to describe how surprised I am that my squash won Best in Show of all the adult entries in the craft & produce part of the Fair. Seriously. It took me two or three days to understand that I’d won the Biggest Prize!! It’s so weird!!! And exciting!!
 
The weirdest part is that there were changes in the way the Fair was run this year, and a lot of confusion and controversy between the adult clubs that used to help out in the past but were shut out this year. I don’t understand all that, but what I do know is that no one associated with the fair has reached out to me in any way, shape, or form. In past years, all Best in Show winners for their categories would get their picture in the paper. None of that this year. Now, I’m good. I posted on SM and got my flowers from the people who matter. My questions are really more about how this is crappy PR for the Fair at large. Do better, folks!

​September was a really good month in many ways, much of it I can attribute to feeling better. I also got to see an old friend for a few hours, and my group won trivia one night. However, as the title foreshadowed, it did end with a setback. 

​On the last day of the month, I went to Legacy to cover the 1st track practice. Normally, my colleague is responsible for Tuesdays, but we’d already had delays, and we needed to get started. The practice went well. I ran with them, wanting to demo the pace. I felt a little weird after, but nothing concerning. I often feel weird after working out.
 
I got back to where I was dogsitting, and was cooking dinner, and felt the familiar feelings of a seizure starting. Here, my memory becomes all a jumble. I sat on the floor and worried about turning off the stove because the burner control is in the back. I remember thinking about calling my brother and what message I would leave, and unlocking the front door. Evidently, I did, because he and my dad came, but I was sitting by the door to the garage. One of the dogs was licking my face. The other, a trained therapy dog, was sitting close. (Both are standard poodles, and the one licking me will eventually be a therapy dog, too.)

​The next day, it occurred to me that September 30th is the anniversary of the day I got into the ticks. I also got a call needing to push back my neuro appointment for the 2nd time this fall. I hope she’s okay. My doctor is brilliant. And an immigrant. So is my Nurse Practitioner.
 
Anyway, since then, I’ve been off. Off-off. I think I’ve been having lots of FASs. No heavy machinery for me. If there have been extra typos and wording mistakes, that’s the reason. *sigh* At least it means I sleep well.

​Since the class was project-based, we didn’t have your typical assignments. Each quarter centered on a theme, and there would be various activities and papers, usually completed individually or in pairs. Then, each quarter culminated with a 6-person, 45-minute-long presentation. All assignments had two grades: one for substance and one for style. However, it was possible to get away with a lack of substance if one was entertaining enough. Conversely, if one’s main point contradicted a teacher’s personal view, even if well supported, one could get counted down.

This brings me to third quarter. After a unit on Expansion (ie, colonization) and one on Industrialization, we were now doing “Isms.” You know, philosophies, like puritanism, realism, capitalism, creationism, transcendentalism, beat poetry, and the Southern mind. Yes, you read that right, the teachers of American Thought, a class that claimed critical thinking, made the decision to present an entire region of the country as a philosophical monolith on par with beat poetry and every other after-dinner debate in New England.

I was not comfortable with this at the time, but did not have the capacity to fully understand what bothered me about it, other than it “othered” me on certain levels. Now, with almost 30 years of hindsight, I see how completely dangerous, divisive, and prejudiced that decision was.

Before I go any further and tell the part of the story that really and truly makes me furious, I want to request one thing: Please remember that all the students in this story were around 16 or 17. I’ve had to give myself quite a bit of grace because much of my learning came later. At the time, I was too confused and jumbled to know how to respond. In the years that followed, different events would remind me of this class, adding clarity to both. I hope my classmates have had similar experiences of learning.

​Back to the story.

At the end of the third quarter, one group chose to do their 45-minute presentation on the Southern mind. Specifically, they wanted to show the different stereotypes people in the Boston area have about the South. They had a video of one guy interviewing people in the grocery store parking lot, which was pretty funny. When he’d ask, “What do you know about the South?” many would reply, “South Boston?”

They also performed a series of skits. None of them were flattering, but I only remember one. They did a portrayal of how the Klan got its start. The skit entailed the boys in wifebeaters, getting drunk and bored, then deciding to go beat up black people. There was a lot of laughter. I did not laugh. (Sidenote: I’d never heard of men’s undershirts being called wifebeaters before this sketch. I still hate this name.)
​
When I got home and told my mom about this project, I just sobbed. I can remember where I was in the kitchen. What upset me the most is that they never presented how things actually are. Yes, it was a project about stereotypes, but what’s the point if they are never addressed?

Take the formation of the Klan. It wasn’t bored, drunk rednecks. It was town and city leaders who thought they needed to protect their families. It had more organic and “noble” beginnings that are a lot more insidious and dangerous. The kind of thinking I believe is important for people to face if we are going to have the peaceful society that we claim to want. Gone with the Wind has a pretty good description of this kind of thinking, but according to Mr. History, that book was too biased to be referred to. Unlike every other novel we read.

The bullshit shown in that skit actually perpetuates this idea expressed by President Johnson:

​So, yeah, that group got A’s for both substance and style. I never spoke up about my feelings about it because I was too confused at the time. Also, I’d been shut down a lot in the class. One friend who’d been in that group did ask me about it, and I did tell her it bothered me that they never got to how things really are, but the conversation never got that deep. She’s one of a handful of people I’d love to talk more about AT with because I know she, being one of two or three ethnic minorities, experienced things, too.

​All-in-all, I don’t regret taking the class. I learned a lot. Much of the experience set me up for success in later things I have done. But arguably little of what I learned was what they set out to teach me.

I’ve written previously about what I like to call Experience Deniers, a term a friend and I coined for anyone who downplays the experience of another. Lately, with the world being as it is, this country especially, I’ve been thinking about how much the denial of others’ experiences has played a role in this mess. This goes in all directions. In truth, some of the most dangerous people I’ve encountered have been highly educated. The problem? They already knew everything and had nothing left to learn.

With all this, I’ve been thinking about how I’ve had the unique opportunity to live in the North, South, and Midwest. In rural and urban areas. Be amongst blue-collar workers and academics, predominantly white communities, and highly diverse ones. I’ve also traveled many places and have the kind of personality that quietly watches the interactions going on around me. I don’t know much, but I am curious, and I notice things and I ask questions.
​
So, this is the first of a series of entries about different events I have witnessed or experienced that have shaped the way I understand the world and the way people interact within it. I believe all of these have made me a better listener.

I went to high school in Massachusetts. In my junior year, I took American Thought. It combined US History and Literature and met two periods a day. Having moved there from West Virginia and having family from Arkansas, I was the token Southern girl. As a result, my thoughts on the Civil War were immediately suspect, regardless of what they were. This was incredibly frustrating, especially when you consider how West Virginia came to be a state.

Anyhow, we read Uncle Tom’s Cabin. While I can respect the historical value of this book, I did not enjoy reading it at all. One thing I disliked was that the darker the Black people were, the dumber they were. It was like the amount of melanin was inversely proportional to intelligence. Yet, when I tried to voice this, the class – and teachers – responded as if the poor Southern girl just didn’t understand.

Making matters worse, the discussion went on to the scene when the Ohio River freezes overnight, so Eliza can make her escape. The question was asked if this was something that could literally happen or an example of mystical realism. I answered that it was definitely mystical realism because I used to live on the Ohio River, and there was no way it could freeze overnight like that.

Again, the poor Southern girl responses. It was pointed out that the much smaller river near the school froze over once when it was below freezing for several days.

Never mind that the Ohio is the second largest river in the country by discharge. Never mind that where I lived was several hundred miles upstream from Kentucky, and it was still a quarter mile wide. Never mind that in the early 1800s no locks or other modern flow regulators had been built yet.
​
I was from the South. They were from the North. There was no way I could know.

​My insecurity about typos and grammar mistakes goes back to adolescence. It’s a combination of things, the first being that I generally caught on to things quickly at school. So, when I would make a mistake, I’d get reprimanded for being careless without much discussion of the root cause. The second was that I got the idea that I was a bad writer. I wrote about that in greater detail here: https://dorothyjeanrice.com/blog/slow-going.

I now know that most of my mistakes are because I am more focused and interested in the ideas and how they flow together. Writing things out by hand, I often leave out words and sections of words. These are easy enough to address as I revise or transcribe. When I would write things on the board as a teacher, I made it a kind of game with my students when they would catch my mistakes. Used it as a way to normalize being a work in progress.

Admittedly, none of this sounds that bad. I’ve recovered from most of my teenage doubts, and I am confident I can construct a clear, concise, and clever sentence. However, I do make a lot of mistakes. Since my brain got all spicy, the mistakes are more frequent. For example, when I first typed that earlier sentence, I combined ‘clear’ and ‘clever’ into ‘cleaver.’ I do this kind of thing when I speak as well. It’s minor and is easy to manage.

However, the “Fix It Now” attitude of all these AI-driven programs adds another layer of things I need to manage. Remember when I said I want my main focus to be the ideas? It is really hard to sustain that focus when autofill is suggesting all kinds of ridiculousness, and every other word is being unlined. These distractions do not make me a better writer.

The worst is when my words are changed into something I Do Not Want. A recent example is when I texted a friend something benign involving sperm. Autocorrect changed ‘sperm’ to ‘supermarket.’ I can’t even. That was so much of a train of thought killer, I don’t remember the original intent of the message. 
​

​On previous occasions, I have changed the settings so that I can run a check when I choose. This is my ideal. (I also fare better when I am able to write out a draft by hand, but circumstances don’t always allow for that.) Unfortunately, the AI overlords do not like this, so every time they initiate an update, they undo this restriction and take over again. It is an ongoing battle.

I once heard someone with a severe stutter talk about how frustrating it is to have people “help” by finishing their words for them. They described the way it interrupted their thoughts and said it actually makes the stutter worse. It’s better for them to push through.

I feel the same way about AI writing assistants. On the days I’m struggling with words and language, I need to push. People and robots finishing my sentences make the problem worse. So, not only does AI bland and dampen creativity, but it can be an ableist jerk.

Conclusion, like any other tool, AI is only as good as its user.
​