I thought the same thing every time I drove through Pine Island, Minnesota.

Where is William Duffy's farm located? Why don't I see the bronze butterfly? Have I wasted my life?

My God, James Wright, I have so many questions.

I'm done commuting to Rochester, but that doesn't mean class is done. I have about 15 pages of Literature Review to write, alongside a detailed description of my Method. But the data collection tools are nearly ready to go, and the intro is pretty solid, even though research writers are quite unappreciative of the creative quirks in my writing. You want to use a fragment for what? For effect? Hu-huh, I don't think so. Get your fucking em-dashes out of here, you MFA slut.

Nobody really said that. But throughout this 3 and 1/2 week course I did have some interesting conversations about my writing. Namely with the professor, who really is a wonderful professor, who embarrassed me in front of the entire room of people I didn't know (all training to be K--6 teachers, I was the only 5--12) by saying things like:

• Jean is very, very special, everyone. Jean has an MFA. That is a terminal degree, which means that highest possible degree. She has already been teaching for two years.

and

• What do you think about that Jean? During class discussions that I did not volunteer myself for.

and

• [as a P.S. to an email to the entire class] P.S. Jean, we are so lucky to have you in this class. You have so much to teach us.

and

• Well, when Jean signed up for this class, I was so intimidated! She is just so smart! I thought I was going to make myself a fool in front of her.

Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered as fuck. But after that email to the class, I got some stink eyes when I walked in the room next day. I wanted to say: NO! I didn't ask for this! I'm not smarter than any of you! There is nothing special about me except I spent three years getting drunk and writing some poems and shit. Stop.

But class is over. I will implement the experiment I've written next year, another year when I will be ridiculously busy and have no time for implementing experiments. But the little psychologist who lives inside of me is pretty excited, and I had a good time, actually, creating my data triangulation matrix (Liz, you have to see), and I've created some data collection tools that I'm more than willing to show off. Particularly a "peer review rubric" wherein my students will review their peer reviewers. And, next year, I'll be audio tape recording a couple of peer reviews to see what it is students talk about when the have the whole class to talk about writing. My guess: school gossip, farting, shopping, and football.

The title of my Action Research Project (thesis toward finishing the fucking M.S. Education K--12) is:

Where to Start Syndrome:

Can Goal-Setting Improve the Quality of Student Peer Review and Revision?

In one year, I'll be able to answer this question. And I will have to present it to a big group of people whilst wearing a fancy outfit. Jealous? Me either.

Anyway, I'm going to go to Green Bay now to get hammered.

Oh hey, what's up, I hate research.

I've come to find that my research strategy for journal articles is the same strategy I use at a Chinese buffet.

Everything looks good. Fill plate. Ingest as much as possible.

And then I find, in hindsight of course, that I've eaten too much. That my strategy of ooh, this looks so good, this looks exactly like what I need, PRINT PRINT PRINT just leads to a boatload of indigestion. Then I find (after reading the whole 20-page article, of course) that the article I thought was so amazing actually is research on retarded children. Or Korean children. Or ugly children. And I will have none of those in my classroom.

Then I get hungry and start all over again. Second plate. Pretty soon dessert. Oh, this looks so good, it just smells satisfying. Oh, turns out it's seven-hour-old squid with orange sauce.

Good thing I didn't notice until after I ate the whole thing.

This week in Hutch

was the best week you've had in Hutch.

Leave it to Jenny and Christina. This town is livable when you only have to work 2 hours a day, when you leave it three times during the week, when your bestest friends in the whole world and the cutest dog of all time are running around your tiny apartment. It's absolutely livable when you're friends start cooking for you, have meals prepared after job interviews, bake you a cake that says Smell Ya Later Hutch after you nail the job. (Before that, they soothed you and comforted you and offered all they could--they put up with your nervousness and whining after that horrible interivew (the worst you've had, ever)--and you had a group hug when you got the call.

They taught 8th graders with you. You went for walks around town. They did all the dishes. They kissed you on the head in the bathroom when you were waiting for the puke to come after way too much Sweet Tea Vodka. (Devil, devil, sweet tea.) You believe you each shared a victory at Scrabble. You were almost skunked at Cribbage. It was a cold week, more fall than summer, gray skies, almost-rain and then rain.

God, you ate some good food.

And when it was over, it wasn't sad like the other times. Because there is the 4th of July, and then there is the roadtrip to New York, and you are very quite certain that that week will blow this one out of the water.

*

Not to jinx it, but this summer is in the running for being the best one I've ever had. Not to jinx it. Everything is amazing. Now I have to find the best way to quit my job.

I sent this email to about 20 people today:

A quote from a student's final exam essay, re: Huck Finn:

"Jim is the biggest influence on huck cause you have to have a lot of responsibility to take care of a slave. You need to feed, water, make sure they don't get stolen, It's just like takeing care of a puppie but it's a human and 10 times harder."

My favorite part is where you have to "water" a slave. You know, so they don't dry out in the sun.

Liz said: You need to make sure your slaves don't get stolen! What does this student recommend? The Club? A nice, sturdy bike lock (remember to get it around the legs and seat, too, so no one steals those parts and leaves you with the rest)?

What.

Argh.

I just found out on fucking Facebook that my uncle has been missing from his group home for six days, meaning he has been off his medication, meaning he is not safe.

And I've been home for the last four days, but nobody said anything about this.

There are so many things I will never, ever, ever understand.