Mallory's Camera

Finished Remunerative Project.

And was so clogged with fatigue, I could barely function, so after a truncated outing—that was more like a slow, ceremonial victory stagger around the track than a brisk, invigorating tromp—I took to my bed like a Victorian neurasthenic and spent a pleasant afternoon nibbling raspberries and stinky cheese, and reading John McWhorter’s Talking Back, Talking Black.

McWhorter is a linguist who writes beautifully and accessibly without dumbing down. He’s Black. I ❤️LUV❤️ him because he loathes wokeism generally and Robin DiAngelo specifically. Talking Back, Talking Black is a compelling argument for recognizing Black English as a legitimate dialect. The book delves deeply into the grammar, phonological system and development of what scholars refer to as “African-American Vernacular English.”

McWhorter is also laugh-out-loud funny, so a good time was had by all on my faux-Victorian sickbed. (I kept sneaking morsels of stinky cheese to the cat.)

Of course, after a few hours, I finished the book and was forced to contemplate ways of keeping myself awake—because Fall Back, right? If I went to sleep at 8pm, I would probably wake up at 3am, and however bright-eyed and bushy-tailed one may feel at 3am, it is not a good time to wake up unless you’re a morning television show producer or a garbage worker.

Fortunately, Ichabod called me. He was on his way to Burlingame—Mia has finished her PhD—the drive is long and b-o-r-i-n-g, so why not call Mom?

###

Ichabod told me he’d been catrastophizing. (Interesting noun to turn into a verb.)

That day, he’d had to judge some sort of moot court thingy, and he felt like he had talked too much, given that many of the other participants were women.

This is what happens when you’re a male raised by a feminist, I suppose.

Of course, I am biased, but when I’ve seen Ichabod talk too much, it’s always seemed motivated by a surfeit of excitement and passion for his subject matter rather than by an egoistic need to dominate—which is so often the case with men who talk too much.

But like I say, I’m biased.

Anyway, we started talking generally about “catastrophizing”—I could barely contain my delight at this exciting new word—and I began talking about something I do that might fall into this general category—

“I always have to imagine a worst case scenario,” I said. “Like if my wallet is missing, and I think I may have left it in the car. I always have to live out in my mind exactly what will happen if I don’t find the wallet in the car—in excruciating detail! All the credit cards I will have to cancel and replace. My driver’s license! All those scraps of paper with vitally important scribbles. What a complete and total drag the process will be.

“And I have to do this even if I know the wallet is in the car.

“Because if I don’t do this, the wallet won’t be in the car!”

Anyway, during the course of the conversation—which free-ranged over topics far more interesting than catastrophizing—I got the notion that the perfect Statement of Intent for the Stegner Fellowship might be a riff on my fantasy Worst Case Scenario for the application.

How all the Famous Writers charged with evaluating applications would gather round to read mine aloud, snorting with scornful laughter. Maybe blowing chunks of Caesar salad out of their nostrils, they are laughing so hard! I see them clearly in downtown Palo Alto at Il Fornaio! Or is that too much status detail?

How they would circulate choice bits in email round-robins with scathingly funny, ironic comments: Is this not the worst thing you’ve ever read? (Okay, okay. That is neither “scathing” nor “ironic.” I’ll have to work on that one.)

How, having pinned all my hopes upon acceptance, I will simply wither away here in the cold northlands. Deranged with grief, I will become more susceptable to COVID, contract the virus, haul my aching carcass into my car—the same one with the missing wallet—and then get into an accident and die on my way to the ER—

“Well, it would certainly make your application stand out!” Ichabod observed cheerily.

“It would, wouldn’t it?” I said thoughtfully.