Are we confusing “provocative” with “creative”?

Sure, Jamie Varon’s campaign to get hired by Twitter was unique. It grabbed the attention of thousands of readers and eventually propelled her into Twitter HQ for an interview.  It stands as a symbol of the power of social networking, blogging, and communicating with new media.

But what kind of power is this? Is this the power to be creative, to be exploratory?  Or is this the power to be provocative–the ability to force eyeballs upon a subject, an issue, a call for action–but not to forge new ground in any direction?

Of course, I am attempting to be provocative here–and I have no aspirations to actually be creative.  I’m simply calling our attention to the ways that the Twitter-era privileges and produces more controversy than artistry.  It is a supreme irony that I rely on a blog post to propose this topic.

Take the fall-out over Penelope Trunk’s tweet about her miscarriage.  And for a minute, suspend your judgement about whether or not you think she was right or wrong.  What is really going on in the conversation?

Penelope started by speaking her mind, received a tremendous amout of feedback from her friends, enemies, and frenemies, and eventually appeared on major media networks to defend her position.  Did she use Twitter to be inventive?  Certainly not.

Now, this is not to say that there’s no value in a tweet like Penelope’s.  We have to recognize that she used Twitter to bring awareness to something–a complicated subject like abortion from which people typically shy away at all costs.  If the tweet was not inventive, it remained thought-provoking.

Penelope’s tweet and the storm around it are just one of many examples of the ways people confuse being creative with being provocative. Here’s another way to think of this, courtesy of Chuck Klosterman in Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs (a fairly eye-catching title, eh?).

Klosterman says that people who say they are creative (me included) are not truly creative–instead, they only know what other people think “creativity” should be. They produce ideas or objects or whatever to fit a certain mold of thought–and this, he says, is conformity, not creativity. Because creativity is all about breaking new ground, not treading over well-worn paths.

This is food for thought for all of us creative types: are we trying to be what society has accepted as “creative”–manipulating the tools of social media in order to appear creative and thought-provoking?

Or are we trying to be creative to the core of its meaning?

What do you think?  Let’s have a conversation about this in the comments below.

To-Do List

It’s been a busy week. When things pile up, and I need to stay organized, I ditch the digital organization and go back to paper: the 1-page To-Do List.  Just write down what needs to get done, and do it.

Nothing can top the feeling of physicall crossing something off the list.  Scratch it off and voila!  Next, please!

And nothing is more frustrating–motivating?–of that one, uncrossed item staring you back in the face:  I’m still here! (Sometimes that item deserves a circle, as pictured above)

Usually, the uncrossed and circled items are the hardest to do–which is why we’ve left them there, picking the lowest hanging fruit from our list.  If I’m feeling up for it, I start with the hardest tasks first, knowing once they’re done, it’s all down hill from there.

How do you stay organized?

Life: What Happens When You’re Making Other Plans (A Guest Post by my Mom)

This is a guest post from my Mom, a woman I respect and admire.  In 2005, she retired from nearly 20 years of work with a major corporation.  Her first position with that corporation was telemarketer–she worked the night shift and returned home to her other full-time job:  mother, where she prepared four children for school each morning.  She finished with the corporation as a Senior Vice President.  Just a week ago, she decided to become an employee again, a wonderful reminder that there is a difference between “having a job” and “going to work.”

How many times have you heard the expression, “Find a job you love and you’ll never ‘work’ a day in your life?”

I’m sure it’s been a source of some decisions you’ve made related to course selections, career goals, job opportunities and–ultimately–landing that primo job.Well, sometimes that expression can apply even in your “senior” years.

I loved to draw, even as a child. My signature still survives on my old First Birthday cards that my Mother neatly arranged in my baby scrapbook. I scribbled on all of them and was very proud of my work. I pursued the artistic route in high school, but never went to college. I took an office job after graduation, fell in love and got married.

I got pretty good at making babies…. four of them to be exact. It’s still the most beloved job I’ve ever had. The domesticated goddess that I became continued to feel the “gnaw to draw”; it got put on the back burner as I took another position with a major corporation.

Climbing the corporate ladder, rung by rung, became my new mantra. Until that fatal day when I opened my e-mail only to see the words “volunteer retirement” What? I’m how old and I have how many years of service? I thought I was still scribbling.

Should I stay at my job and fight to keep the position, as new, more experienced candidates came up that same ladder? Should I stay at my job (the one that now I dreaded) or should I take that leap of faith? It was a no-brainer. I took the leap.

I had great plans to enjoy my life: go back to using the creative side of my brain. It’s been four years. Family illness, a wedding, and the birth of a new grandson have all filled the time. But wait, I’m still feeling that I’m not really retired–I’m just in the process of re-inventing myself. Who am I? What do I want? What is my purpose?

I’ve been meditating on this for years:  rewind to childhood, art, and drawing.  So, I decided to sign up for a class “The Joy of Drawing.”  (It sounded appropriate) What a joy it has been. I’m there for three hours and sometimes I never even take a sip of water. I think I could do this and it wouldn’t feel like work.

So, remember that thing called “Life?” Well it happened.  I’m walking around a store one day and I see a sign “Scrapbook Instructor Needed.” I like to be creative, my artistic juices are flowing right now, and I have some experience with scrapbooks–even if it is as a scribbler! I decided to apply for the position.  But–it’s going to be on my terms this time.

I go to my job, do what I love, and it never feels like work. I’m excited to teach people to create what they see, not what they think they should create. Wow! Is that a life lesson or what? It could relate to everything: Do what you like, not what you think you should do.

My life has been a real circus lately. A little bit of a magic act–but I can relate to the trapeze artist. I’ve let go of the bar and I’m flying. I haven’t quite reached the other side, but sometimes in mid-air, in that stillness, you get to experience life’s greatest lessons:

Don’t be afraid to let go and follow your heart. Do what you love to do. It is never too late to create your own “Still Life.”
-The Flying Stuhlinski

What do you think?  Is retirement an end or a beginning?

Share your thoughts and comments for my Mom below.

Listening to the North

This post is a contribution to this week’s Polar Week activities.  Learn more here.  It is also a re-post from my blog about living in the Arctic–check that out here.

Justin Cardinal shuffles through the halls of Inuvik’s Sir Alexander Mackenzie School—his face tucked in the hood of a Volcom sweatshirt, his ears plugged with the buds of an mp3 player. His feet, like many youth in this northern town, are adorned with mukluks, traditional animal-skin boots that have been handcrafted by generations of aboriginal Canadians. Justin’s accessories may not clash in the fashion sense of pre-teens across the Territories, but they do represent a collision of cultures that is shaping the North of tomorrow.

This is a story about my year as a volunteer teacher in the Arctic and the stories shared with me by northerners—the same stories I’ve overheard told to students like Justin. From the classroom to the campfire, I’ve watched youth confront two powerful, yet seemingly conflicting messages. Remember your roots. Branch out with new technologies. What kids-these-days patch together from the internet, their iPods, their elders, and their ever-diversifying peers is being stitched into the fabric of their identities like beads on their footwear.[i]

How do they make sense of the noise? By analyzing three stories youth hear, we begin to learn about their task of braiding worlds of the past with the present.[ii] By listening to the North, northerners can take crucial steps to preserving culture in the face of modern challenges.

The land is our home. We can develop it, but we must also protect it..

Imperial Oil was in town this winter proposing plans to survey the Beaufort Sea for oil reserves. The company conducted meetings across the Delta to consult with natives about best management practices. Their study area intersected traditional whale harvesting grounds and hunters had expressed concerns over potential impacts left by research vessels. I prepared myself for a heated discussion that might take the chill out of the November air.

Things never got too hot to handle. Instead, opinions from the southern enterprise harmonized with those from the local Hunters and Trappers Committee. Biologists used graphs and charts to prove their point. Inuvik residents spoke from personal experiences and the wisdom of their ancestors. One lesson resonated through these different stories: take only what is needed from nature and no more—it is delicate, yet resilient, and must be treated with care.[iii] As I wandered home under the Aurora, I wondered how northern and southern perspectives had traveled to this common ground.

Perhaps the dialogue I heard in Ingamo Hall is a legacy of Thomas Berger and his landmark decision against the Mackenzie Pipeline in the 1970s.[iv] Perhaps visitors to today’s North bring with them respect for what is native to this land—the people, their traditions, and the wilderness. Wherever the origins may lie, agreements among aboriginal and non-aboriginal environmental groups are a symbol of the new North. Kids see the signs of these times—from classroom presentations about careers in environmental monitoring to Petroleum Show banners boasting sponsorships from the Inuvik Youth Centre and the Aboriginal Pipeline Group.

There is a cautious tone underlying today’s stories of resource development. It lingered in Ingamo Hall and it surfaced again on trips to Split Pingo, to Rock River for a caribou hunt, and to the Mackenzie Delta for a trapping program. While on-the-land with groups of 6th graders, I listened as park officials and elders warned of the consequences of mismanaging resources and abusing nature. “This land may be an economic opportunity now,” a local man advised, “but it is always our home. We can’t take from it forever. We have to protect our home.”

It seems as new paths for development open in the North, young northerners are being reminded to tread lightly.

The only constant is change.

“Mr. O’Donnell! You’re back!” This was the battle-cry as an army of 5th graders overtook a middle-aged man—who taught these students a few years ago, before he left town. He’s returned, but only for a visit. Teacher turnover in Inuvik is as common as flies in the summer and can be just as annoying. I’ve heard parents and peers echo concerns about the troubles of northern youth, linking many of these troubles with watching teachers come and go, year after year.

While worries about adolescent development hang like a cloud over the North, there is an important silver lining to point out. Students here understand that transience is a permanent feature of their landscape—a lesson that may have increasing value as their world endures changes their elders never experienced. With forces like climate change and international tourism touching down in the Territories, knowing how to learn—without getting attached to expert knowledge—will be essential to thriving, adaptive communities.

Culture is preserved and produced on a daily basis.

Northern heritage lives in Sir Alexander Mackenzie School. It’s in the beading projects displayed in Mrs. Ray’s Gwich’in language room. It’s in the sounds of drums beaten by young drummers and dancers rehearsing for the Christmas concert. It’s in the smell of cooked loche wafting through the first floor corridor. It’s inside the cover of a book stamped with Grollier Hall—a living memory of this building’s residential school days.

Like a journey that begins with a single step, maintaining culture over time depends on daily practice. If my observations in the past year as a volunteer in the North are any indication for its future, the task of preservation is in good hands. I’ve seen youth build their own jiggling sticks, compete in finger pulls, and twist their own rabbit snares—a hands-on education they have come to cherish and celebrate.

Culture is created at the same pace it is preserved, and as students carry on age-old customs, they also produce new ones. I marvel at how these leaders, barely more than a decade old, balance the weights of tradition and modernity, of conservation and development, and of consistency and unpredictability. Stories of mukluks and iPods will be their legacies—their lessons in how to change and yet stay what you are.

[i] For an example of the continuing oral tradition in the Northwest Territories, see Above and Beyond’s feature on The Land is Our Storybook series (March/April 2008 edition). For an enlightening history of Yukon oral traditions, see Julie Cruikshank, Do Glaciers Listen? Local Knowledge, Colonial Encounters, and Social Imagination, (UBC Press: Toronto, 2005).
[ii] Environmental historian William Cronon has written about the importance of narrative—or stories—in shaping societal values with respect to nature, culture, and history. See William Cronon, “A Place for Stories: Nature, History, and Narrative,” The Journal of American History, Vol. 78, No. 4 (Mar., 1992), pp. 1347-1376
[iii] For more on how scientific narratives can shape perceptions of northern environments, see Stephen Bocking, “Science and Spaces in a Northern Environment,” Environmental History, 12 (October 2007): 867-94.
[iv]There are many resources for learning more about the history of the Mackenzie Pipeline and Thomas Berger’s role in its development. A good introduction can be found in: Carolyn Swayze, Hard Choices: A Life of Tom Berger, (Douglas and McIntyre: Vancouver, 1987).

Coors Light, the Cops, and an Angry Old Man

I want to tell you a story today about adulthood.  You might not expect that a 27 year old student has much to say about the ins and outs of being an adult.  But an experience I had just 14 days ago has convinced me otherwise and I hope relating the experience will convince you, too.

Let me paint the picture for you.  Imagine that you’re me.  I’m walking Mackenzie the Dog around our neighborhood in downtown Madison, Wisconsin.  It’s a Friday–but not just any Friday.  It’s a beautiful, here-comes-the-weekend, everything-is-perfect Friday.  It might help you conjure up this image by picturing that a soundtrack is playing in the background.  The soundtrack would sound something like Boyz II Men because they’re epic (and the reference to this band might be considered foreshadowing)

My house and Mackenzie’s dinner is just a block away–across Reynolds Field, one of the few city parks in town.  Next to Reynolds Field is Breese Stevens Stadium, where all of the high school soccer teams in Dane County come to play their games.  We are fortunate to live in this area of town because we have so much green space to run around.  In fact, Mackenzie is kind of pissed that there are people occupying Reynolds Field at this particular moment.  She feels like she owns this park,so she takes a pee on it.

There must be a game tonight because the stadium lights are on.  And the street is all “parked up” by spectators looking to get a good seat.  This is fine by me.  It adds to the sense of community.

But something’s not right about this picture. Here’s what I see:  about 20 high schoolers gathered around a pop-up card table.  They are being fairly loud and rowdy for Friday at 4:30pm.  And the closer I get, the more Red Solo Cups I see.  And then I spot a trash bag full of Coors Light.  My first thought is:

“Who the eff drinks Coors Light?”

(Especially in Wisconsin.  And especially because that beer company has yoked its entire marketing campaign to selling the “coldest beer.”  Come on, anyone can put anything in a bottle, stick it in the fridge and–guess what?–30 minutes later, it’s cold).

So I’m angry that these under-agers are disrespecting me and the law and the entire state of Wisconsin by drinking.  They shouldn’t be drinking out in the open like that.  They’re not even 21!  What if one of them has to get in a car and drive in about an hour?  When I was young we drank Natty Light or warm diet coke with cheap vodka.  Have some respect.

As these thoughts bounced around my raging brain, something in me presses pause for a second.  Who am I? Am I Andy Stuhl, the guy who celebrates the anniversary of his 21st birthday each year?   Or am I Andrew Stuhl, the guy who owns a house and a dog, is engaged to be married, and generally likes to lounge in his Adidas sweatpants on rainy days?

In this moment, I decided I was the latter.  And here’s the kicker:  I didn’t just get “all adult” by thinking that what those kids were doing was wrong.  I made a huge next step.   I called the cops.

Yup, I picked up the phone and rang the local police station.  This was not an emergency, so no 911 was needed (sorry Sean Kingston).  It was just a friendly neighbor alerting the fuzz of a potential situation.  I convinced myself I was doing my duty as a citizen–this was illegal and dangerous activity.  It was the “right thing to do” to call the cops and let them know that young, under-age, and possibly intoxicated kids would soon get into cars and drive away.

As soon as I put the phone down, I had pangs of regret.  Am I “that guy?”  Am I Mr. Hypocritical?  Of course, we must remember, I too attended soccer games as a high school student.  My high school team reached #1 in the USA back in the day, partly because I was there in attendance cheering the boys on.  And I may or may not have been drinking beforehand.

I realized there were two reasons why I called the cops.  For one, I wanted to assert my own adulthood by “doing the right thing” and making sure everybody was safe.

Underneath that motivation was something deeper–potentially more adult.  It was the nagging feeling that I was getting older and that I recognized in these kids a shade of my youth, a version of my younger self.

Having that out-of-body realization–that distance between where I stood in life and where those teenagers were–that was the moment I knew I was an adult.