A Little Help
Today I rode my Rock Hopper (which is so smooth these days after Matt intervened in the tire crisis) over to Bentleys to get some work done. Bentley’s is close, but it means crossing Campbell, so I always dread the ride. When I got there today I realized that I had forgotten my wallet. I wanted to throw my head back and yell “WHHHHHHHY?” but I was very discrete. I simply packed up my stuff and headed out the door. As I was unlocking my bike, a woman who works there ran out and stopped me. She said, “Are you by any chance leaving because you left your wallet at home?”
Surprised me: “Yes, actually I am.”
Lovely woman: “Oh no, don’t go. We’ll take care of you. After all, you come in here A-LOT.”
Maybe it’s a little sad that I’m there so much, but really the whole exchange just thrilled me. It means I have a Cheers place (except they don’t actually know my name). Maybe I’m not known there, but I’m noticed. The place was really crowded, but she noticed that I arrived and left quickly and she wondered about it. I’m a regular and therefore I’m to be taken care of when I need it. So much of graduate school revolves around self-sustainability, building up walls and perfecting systems of self-preservation. Today I was reminded of how good it can feel when people step in and help me.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
26.
Fits of Disappointment
I didn’t get the summer fellowship that I really wanted and really thought I deserved. It’s that last part that’s the hardest. I honestly thought that I deserved it. If I had just thrown the application together at the last minute, I would have something to blame and I wouldn’t have to feel so bad. There would be the “if only I had tried harder…” escape route. Now there’s just the knowledge that I threw myself into it and there were at least five people who were better. I’m taking it incredibly personally and for that I blame the dissertation.
For me, writing a dissertation has made my world increasingly small. The process demands isolation, but it also insists upon a constant narrowing of focus that systematically shuts doors to people and possibilities that were once available. The more embroiled I become in ancient Greece, the more I feel the parameters of both my academic and social worlds drawing in. Within such a space, with academics making up so much of my world, of course the fellowship news is personal. I haven’t insolated myself with enough distraction, so any sort of rejection goes straight for my guts.
In the moment of reading the rejection email, instead of having the wind immediately knocked out of me, I decided to fight it, to push back. I had been trying to fix my bike tire for days, so when I got the email, I went straight over and poured all of my energy into that tire. I didn’t want to be idle or passive or defeated—I needed to be doing something productive that had a clear and satisfying end in sight. After about an hour I had tried everything I could think of, used every tool I own, was covered in grease and dirt, and still couldn’t fix it. Finally, in a dramatic fit of disappointment and anger and helplessness, I collapsed on the ground—forehead against the wood—sobbing.
It lasted about fifteen minutes. A complete, though compact, meltdown that lasted fifteen minutes start to finish. I got up, wiped off my eyes with a wad of toilet paper, grabbed my books, and went to Bentley’s. Within about a half hour I found an Erasmus piece, two Renaissance emblems/epigrams, and a picture of a sculpture, all of which I had spent months searching for. In fact, over the weekend I spent an entire day searching for the Erasmus adage (there are 4,251 of them)—and then suddenly I understood what 1.7.70 meant and there it was. Within an hour I went from dramatic academic defeat to heart-pounding discovery and break through.
That’s just the way this process is working for me. And, if I’m being totally honest, I love the drama of it all. There’s a part of me that loved writing that sentence about how my “dissertation has made my world increasingly small.” It’s so completely melodramatic, and it’s sort of crap. My world isn’t really small. I tend to make it small, walling myself into routines that limit my movement to comfortable, worn spaces. Or I romanticize it as small because there is something really appealing (to me) about the image of the scholar tucked away behind walls of books, lost for hours in that state of fluctuating frustration and discovery. I’m exactly where I want to be—and that’s the real reason why I took the fellowship news is so hard. I want this so badly; I want to be good at this work, and I want it down to my core. The thought, the very suggestion, that I might not be good at it makes my legs buckle.
I didn’t get the summer fellowship that I really wanted and really thought I deserved. It’s that last part that’s the hardest. I honestly thought that I deserved it. If I had just thrown the application together at the last minute, I would have something to blame and I wouldn’t have to feel so bad. There would be the “if only I had tried harder…” escape route. Now there’s just the knowledge that I threw myself into it and there were at least five people who were better. I’m taking it incredibly personally and for that I blame the dissertation.
For me, writing a dissertation has made my world increasingly small. The process demands isolation, but it also insists upon a constant narrowing of focus that systematically shuts doors to people and possibilities that were once available. The more embroiled I become in ancient Greece, the more I feel the parameters of both my academic and social worlds drawing in. Within such a space, with academics making up so much of my world, of course the fellowship news is personal. I haven’t insolated myself with enough distraction, so any sort of rejection goes straight for my guts.
In the moment of reading the rejection email, instead of having the wind immediately knocked out of me, I decided to fight it, to push back. I had been trying to fix my bike tire for days, so when I got the email, I went straight over and poured all of my energy into that tire. I didn’t want to be idle or passive or defeated—I needed to be doing something productive that had a clear and satisfying end in sight. After about an hour I had tried everything I could think of, used every tool I own, was covered in grease and dirt, and still couldn’t fix it. Finally, in a dramatic fit of disappointment and anger and helplessness, I collapsed on the ground—forehead against the wood—sobbing.
It lasted about fifteen minutes. A complete, though compact, meltdown that lasted fifteen minutes start to finish. I got up, wiped off my eyes with a wad of toilet paper, grabbed my books, and went to Bentley’s. Within about a half hour I found an Erasmus piece, two Renaissance emblems/epigrams, and a picture of a sculpture, all of which I had spent months searching for. In fact, over the weekend I spent an entire day searching for the Erasmus adage (there are 4,251 of them)—and then suddenly I understood what 1.7.70 meant and there it was. Within an hour I went from dramatic academic defeat to heart-pounding discovery and break through.
That’s just the way this process is working for me. And, if I’m being totally honest, I love the drama of it all. There’s a part of me that loved writing that sentence about how my “dissertation has made my world increasingly small.” It’s so completely melodramatic, and it’s sort of crap. My world isn’t really small. I tend to make it small, walling myself into routines that limit my movement to comfortable, worn spaces. Or I romanticize it as small because there is something really appealing (to me) about the image of the scholar tucked away behind walls of books, lost for hours in that state of fluctuating frustration and discovery. I’m exactly where I want to be—and that’s the real reason why I took the fellowship news is so hard. I want this so badly; I want to be good at this work, and I want it down to my core. The thought, the very suggestion, that I might not be good at it makes my legs buckle.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
25.
Alarming News from My Breakfast Cereal
As I was pouring the milk over my bowl of Life cereal this morning, I noticed that the happy cartoon cow was informing me that this milk “Tastes fresh longer.” That’s horrible news, cartoon cow. I don’t want my breakfast treat to taste fresh longer, potentially beyond its true point of freshness. When the curdles are a-brewing, let’s be really honest about it—I WANT TO KNOW. That moment when you realize that the milk has turned and have to sprint across the kitchen to spit out the Frosted Flakes is a truly horrible moment, but ultimately you spit out the contaminated Flakes and move on with your life. Tastes fresh longer? Happy cow, I don’t want to lose myself in a world of pseudo-freshness. I want to be able to have a trusting relationship with my breakfast cereal. But there's a wall there now. My trust has been shaken.
As I was pouring the milk over my bowl of Life cereal this morning, I noticed that the happy cartoon cow was informing me that this milk “Tastes fresh longer.” That’s horrible news, cartoon cow. I don’t want my breakfast treat to taste fresh longer, potentially beyond its true point of freshness. When the curdles are a-brewing, let’s be really honest about it—I WANT TO KNOW. That moment when you realize that the milk has turned and have to sprint across the kitchen to spit out the Frosted Flakes is a truly horrible moment, but ultimately you spit out the contaminated Flakes and move on with your life. Tastes fresh longer? Happy cow, I don’t want to lose myself in a world of pseudo-freshness. I want to be able to have a trusting relationship with my breakfast cereal. But there's a wall there now. My trust has been shaken.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
24.
The Popular Girls
Today I had to go up to the La Encantada Mall, the fancy mall with perfect small squares of real grass and decorative pots full of flowers that magically exude soothing classical music. I was having one of those days where I’m strangely attracted to all things hot pink (happens less frequently now, but it was really a problem during my first two years of college – and thank you Julie for not letting me buy those shorts at Sportmart. You were right.) So naturally I found myself in the Victoria Secret, both drawn to and repelled by all of the bedazzled underwear. As I was standing at the counter letting a woman rub "crackling glitter body mousse" onto my left arm, I realized just how quickly I can be snapped back into my teenage body.
I was at the La Encantada Mall to get help with my .Mac account, basically to put an end to the 4 a.m., cold sweat, my-dissertation-is-lost-forever panic attacks. After 45 minutes with my assigned genius, Ned, my entire computer was backed up and I had learned how to insert ancient Greek letters and symbols into my Word documents. Ned fixed up my permissions, gave me plug-ins, and ordered me a new keyboard—it was liberating. So how does a person go from feeling genuinely elated over circumflexes to lacquered with crackling glitter body mousse?
The girl with the mousse intimidated me. She was Jaci Jaguer and Jenny Albers, Jessica Nobles and Megan Lutz, Lindsay Howells—all of those girls who have always been way cooler than me. I thought I was over being scared of the popular girls, but when the girl at Victoria Secret insisted that I shellac my arm, I simply pulled up my sleeve and agreed that the scent really was so fresh and light. In that moment I realized that there is a part of me that still wants, badly, to be Cindy Mancini in Can’t Buy Me Love.
Cindy Mancini had the best hair in the world. I have always had hair issues (starting way before the recent series of back-to-back bad haircuts). My hair’s always just been sort of bark-like and (before the haircutting spree) I never did anything with it. The sleep in French braids wavy look, Cindy Mancini's signature do, was about as stylish as I got. I remember getting up early one morning my freshman year of high school and working really hard to put my hair in a ponytail with a blue bow that matched my Gap plaid shorts. I was taking a risk, going for cute, but then John Spannagel came up to me first period and said, “Oh, Kelly, you really shouldn’t wear your hair up.” John Spannagel. It took me years to brave anything in the realm of up-do.
But here’s what I realized today: More than Cindy Mancini, what I really want is to be the person who looks at Cindy when she’s standing there with the glitter mousse and says, “No”—not in a jerky way, but in a really honest, that just sounds like a horrible plan for me way. “No, no I do not.” I image that I’d smile and maybe laugh a little when I said it—because really, I don’t want to be mean or judgmental, I just don’t want to pretend like I’m into the glitter and I don’t want to feel bad about myself because I’m not. It wouldn’t be a rushed, just trying to get out of an awkward situation “No” either. It would be a really honest admission of the fact that the idea of crackling mouse terrifies but also secretly sort of intrigues me, so I’m going to have to circle around the bra bins a few times and then sneak back, grab the bottle, and spray a tiny bit when no one’s looking. And it’d probably crack me up a little because the stuff really did crackle. I know enough about myself at this point to know that I am much more comfortable as the person who laughs out loud by the bra bins—not as the person who says, “Yah, it is totally fresh and light” while a stranger rubs cold, crackling goo onto my arm.
The problem is, when I’m in a situation like that, I tend to revert back to the me who was in awe of the popular girls and easily shamed. No matter how strong and smart and sassy I become, I still carry all of those old insecurities with me. Most of the time they are buried beneath all of the layers of personality and experience that I’ve built and am continuing to build, but there are still striking moments where I want nothing more than to be popular.
Today I had to go up to the La Encantada Mall, the fancy mall with perfect small squares of real grass and decorative pots full of flowers that magically exude soothing classical music. I was having one of those days where I’m strangely attracted to all things hot pink (happens less frequently now, but it was really a problem during my first two years of college – and thank you Julie for not letting me buy those shorts at Sportmart. You were right.) So naturally I found myself in the Victoria Secret, both drawn to and repelled by all of the bedazzled underwear. As I was standing at the counter letting a woman rub "crackling glitter body mousse" onto my left arm, I realized just how quickly I can be snapped back into my teenage body.
I was at the La Encantada Mall to get help with my .Mac account, basically to put an end to the 4 a.m., cold sweat, my-dissertation-is-lost-forever panic attacks. After 45 minutes with my assigned genius, Ned, my entire computer was backed up and I had learned how to insert ancient Greek letters and symbols into my Word documents. Ned fixed up my permissions, gave me plug-ins, and ordered me a new keyboard—it was liberating. So how does a person go from feeling genuinely elated over circumflexes to lacquered with crackling glitter body mousse?
The girl with the mousse intimidated me. She was Jaci Jaguer and Jenny Albers, Jessica Nobles and Megan Lutz, Lindsay Howells—all of those girls who have always been way cooler than me. I thought I was over being scared of the popular girls, but when the girl at Victoria Secret insisted that I shellac my arm, I simply pulled up my sleeve and agreed that the scent really was so fresh and light. In that moment I realized that there is a part of me that still wants, badly, to be Cindy Mancini in Can’t Buy Me Love.
Cindy Mancini had the best hair in the world. I have always had hair issues (starting way before the recent series of back-to-back bad haircuts). My hair’s always just been sort of bark-like and (before the haircutting spree) I never did anything with it. The sleep in French braids wavy look, Cindy Mancini's signature do, was about as stylish as I got. I remember getting up early one morning my freshman year of high school and working really hard to put my hair in a ponytail with a blue bow that matched my Gap plaid shorts. I was taking a risk, going for cute, but then John Spannagel came up to me first period and said, “Oh, Kelly, you really shouldn’t wear your hair up.” John Spannagel. It took me years to brave anything in the realm of up-do.
But here’s what I realized today: More than Cindy Mancini, what I really want is to be the person who looks at Cindy when she’s standing there with the glitter mousse and says, “No”—not in a jerky way, but in a really honest, that just sounds like a horrible plan for me way. “No, no I do not.” I image that I’d smile and maybe laugh a little when I said it—because really, I don’t want to be mean or judgmental, I just don’t want to pretend like I’m into the glitter and I don’t want to feel bad about myself because I’m not. It wouldn’t be a rushed, just trying to get out of an awkward situation “No” either. It would be a really honest admission of the fact that the idea of crackling mouse terrifies but also secretly sort of intrigues me, so I’m going to have to circle around the bra bins a few times and then sneak back, grab the bottle, and spray a tiny bit when no one’s looking. And it’d probably crack me up a little because the stuff really did crackle. I know enough about myself at this point to know that I am much more comfortable as the person who laughs out loud by the bra bins—not as the person who says, “Yah, it is totally fresh and light” while a stranger rubs cold, crackling goo onto my arm.
The problem is, when I’m in a situation like that, I tend to revert back to the me who was in awe of the popular girls and easily shamed. No matter how strong and smart and sassy I become, I still carry all of those old insecurities with me. Most of the time they are buried beneath all of the layers of personality and experience that I’ve built and am continuing to build, but there are still striking moments where I want nothing more than to be popular.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
23.
Intersection
Okay, this whole contrast thing is just getting weird. I was driving down Speedway Blvd (one of the busiest streets in Tucson) and as I stopped at an intersection, a tractor pulled up in the turn lane beside me. An enormous John Dear tractor, right there in the middle of traffic. And the guy was just hanging out, cruising in his tractor, like I was the weird one for even thinking twice about the contrast between landscape equipment and mid-day traffic.
Okay, this whole contrast thing is just getting weird. I was driving down Speedway Blvd (one of the busiest streets in Tucson) and as I stopped at an intersection, a tractor pulled up in the turn lane beside me. An enormous John Dear tractor, right there in the middle of traffic. And the guy was just hanging out, cruising in his tractor, like I was the weird one for even thinking twice about the contrast between landscape equipment and mid-day traffic.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
22.
T-Rex Chicken
With this entry I will have officially established a chicken theme. If I’m being perfectly honest with myself, I love chickens—cartoon chickens mostly, Muppet chickens and Chicken Boo in particular (“He wears a disguise to look like human guys, but he's not a man, he's a Chicken Boo”). Even the word “chicken” makes me happy, mostly because it reminds me of laughing with Meg about the time dad fell asleep in front of the t.v. and suddenly said “chicken”—completely out of nowhere, “chicken”—followed shortly after by “chunk.” But the real reason for tonight’s chicken theme is that I’ve potentially uncovered the secret behind the April Chicken of Doom.
It’s simple: chickens evolved from dinosaurs. In studying soft tissue that was recovered from a T-Rex bone found in Montana, scientists have discovered that dinos and chickens are “first cousins.” The proteins from the T-Rex match those in modern-day poultry—they are “evolutionary kin.” I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. I have been living in fear of the April chicken for years now. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but blood-hungry ruler of the prehistoric world just makes a lot of sense.
I know the risk I’m running here, Ab. It’s watching me, right now, and it knows that I know. But listen April Chicken of Doom, I’m totally okay with the whole T-Rex thing—so you’re part dinosaur, I’m okay with that. Tiny hands, mean eyes. And no, last week I did not draft designs of a small hat to glue over your head claw. I have nothing but respect.
With this entry I will have officially established a chicken theme. If I’m being perfectly honest with myself, I love chickens—cartoon chickens mostly, Muppet chickens and Chicken Boo in particular (“He wears a disguise to look like human guys, but he's not a man, he's a Chicken Boo”). Even the word “chicken” makes me happy, mostly because it reminds me of laughing with Meg about the time dad fell asleep in front of the t.v. and suddenly said “chicken”—completely out of nowhere, “chicken”—followed shortly after by “chunk.” But the real reason for tonight’s chicken theme is that I’ve potentially uncovered the secret behind the April Chicken of Doom.
It’s simple: chickens evolved from dinosaurs. In studying soft tissue that was recovered from a T-Rex bone found in Montana, scientists have discovered that dinos and chickens are “first cousins.” The proteins from the T-Rex match those in modern-day poultry—they are “evolutionary kin.” I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. I have been living in fear of the April chicken for years now. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but blood-hungry ruler of the prehistoric world just makes a lot of sense.
I know the risk I’m running here, Ab. It’s watching me, right now, and it knows that I know. But listen April Chicken of Doom, I’m totally okay with the whole T-Rex thing—so you’re part dinosaur, I’m okay with that. Tiny hands, mean eyes. And no, last week I did not draft designs of a small hat to glue over your head claw. I have nothing but respect.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
21.
Ireland
With so many terrible things in the world, it’s nice to know that there will be music just around the corner on Tuesday evenings.
I arrived at the Rincon Market before the strings. The music was all flute and harp with one guitar. But slowly, over the last forty minutes, the band has filled in one-by-one, chairs scooting back mid-song to expand the circle. Michael is not here yet, so the shouting has yet to begin, but the sound is filling out, growing and deepening with each new instrument. That great, full noise echoing off the brick walls.
The tables are full of people who come just to hear the music. Most of us are sitting by ourselves. Some people are on dates. All of us are swaying a little, even unconsciously, with the music--strangers coming together in moments of music, too many tapping toes to count.
Tonight Mom, in the midst of all this, with the fiddler practically leaping out of his seat as he plays, it’s hard to image how we wouldn’t pick Ireland.
With so many terrible things in the world, it’s nice to know that there will be music just around the corner on Tuesday evenings.
I arrived at the Rincon Market before the strings. The music was all flute and harp with one guitar. But slowly, over the last forty minutes, the band has filled in one-by-one, chairs scooting back mid-song to expand the circle. Michael is not here yet, so the shouting has yet to begin, but the sound is filling out, growing and deepening with each new instrument. That great, full noise echoing off the brick walls.
The tables are full of people who come just to hear the music. Most of us are sitting by ourselves. Some people are on dates. All of us are swaying a little, even unconsciously, with the music--strangers coming together in moments of music, too many tapping toes to count.
Tonight Mom, in the midst of all this, with the fiddler practically leaping out of his seat as he plays, it’s hard to image how we wouldn’t pick Ireland.
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