(Not) Doing It On My Own

I often hear people my age say things like, "Everything I have, I earned," or "I've worked for everything I have," or "I am the reason why I have what I have." There's this intense desire to validate that one's successes (whether material, professional, or financial) are purely their's and NO ONE ELSE'S. They were the ones with the strong work ethic. They were the ones who worked since they were 17 years old. They were the ones with the goals and aspirations.

This sort of perspective has been on my mind lately since I have been celebrating a series of successes. A few months ago, I defended my thesis and passed with distinction. I recently started work as an adjunct professor, teaching three classes in two different departments. It's not an understatement to say that I am in the beginning stages of my dream job. And, yet, despite all of the work, time, effort, tears, fatigue, frustration, and dedication that went into (and will continue to go into) these successes, I would never feel comfortable saying that my accomplishments are purely "mine." Looking back on it, I realize that they belong to so many others.

My parents bought me books as a child and told me education was a priceless endeavor. They took me school-shopping every summer, they encouraged me to go to college, and they helped me pay for expenses like food or health insurance so that I could focus on my studies. They didn't completely pay for college for me, but they gave me the resources to be able to go, and the ideology that made me WANT to go. Beyond my blood family, I've had "adopted" family who love me as their own, year after year, after year, after year. My surrogate "big" sister, for instance, has been with me not only every step of the last 7 years of my academic journey, but also my life in general, offering me her house as a safe space, buying me countless meals, and spending thousands of hours with me talking about my passions, struggles, and dreams.

My accomplishments belong to those I call my family.

My undergraduate professors saw potential in me and encouraged me to go to graduate school. They met with me with and read my writing sample over and over again. They gave me advice. They sent me emails and texts after interviews, asking me how I went. They told me when my writing needed improvement, when something was poorly phrased on my resume, and even when I was currently a major that they knew wasn't right for me. This extended even beyond classroom: the summer I moved into my new apartment, a professor gave me boxes of kitchen appliances and even a few pieces of furniture so that I could save some extra money. Another professor helped me set up what she referred to as a "big girl filing system;" before heading to grad school, I learned how to keep a budget, organize important paperwork, and understand things like car loans and interest rates.

My accomplishments belong to these faculty.

In graduate school, I found similar support. Professors answered emails at all hours of the night, did endless paper conferences with me, and encouraged me in my scholarship. While some could say that's just part of their job, many of them will never be financially compensated for what the time they gave me (and other students). My boss, for instance, who surprised me and took me to hear Toni Morrison speak at a school in the city, did so simply because she knew how much Morrison and her work meant to me; she was not obligated to show me such thoughtfulness. The same goes for my thesis advisor who would often stand outside in the cold with me for an hour after class, helping me process and think through ideas about my thesis.

My accomplishments belong to people like that.

At the risk of sounding like a complete poster child for socialism (guilty as charged), let me stress that I understand that this is a two-way street. It is a participatory relationship. These people help me, but it's because I want to be helped. I ask for advice. I'm not afraid to call myself an amateur and seek the advice of others. My desire for success far outweighs my momentary desire to seem like I am the pro or expert. I don't know it all, and I am willing to consult with the people who do. I've learned that this kind of humility and intense willingness to allow others to help me carries significant benefits. I'd go as far to say that it's one of the primary keys to success.

Yet, while certainly somewhat my responsibility, I also know that my initiative and willingness to learn would be meaningless without the people who have so graciously and selflessly met me half way. Anything I have, no matter how great or how small, is on one hand a product of my work and dedication, but it is also a product of someone ELSE's work and dedication. At the end of the day, I am a collective effort. In the famous words of Rushdie, "I am the sum total of everything that went before me, of all I have been seen done, of everything done-to-me. I am everyone everything whose being-in-the-world affected was affected by mine." Everything I have is shared. And I am so very proud of that. 

What's in a name?

I carried my given name with me for about 25 years. It was what I was called even before I was a born. It was printed on my birth certificate. It was the name I learned to write as a child. It was the name on my diploma and my B.A. degree. It was printed on my school awards, essays, the first piece of writing I had published, and on my first license. It was written on opening pages of books, in letters to friends, on certificates and forms. Quite simply, it was me.

...That is, up until two months ago. On May 15th, 2014 I went to court and had my last name legally changed to my great-grandmother's maiden name. This is something I considered doing for many years. Graduating with my M.A. degree, having access to some money for legal fees, and starting my teaching career made me think the moment was finally right.

There were multiple, complicated reasons for this name change that certainly expand beyond the scope of one blog entry. This decision is a product of years of conversation, research, and especially personal introspection. I'll try, however, to briefly explain my top three reasons:

1) To honor my female heritage: For good or for bad, I know I am who I am today because of the women in my life. My mother, my Yiayia, my aunt, and some of my close female cousins all deeply shaped and influenced me. While I am blessed to know some great men, it is ultimately the women who "made" me. If a name reflects who we are, then it is only appropriate for it to reflect them.

2) To honor my Greek heritage: Although I am also German, I have always identified strongly and passionately as Greek, mostly because it is the culture that was most impressed upon me while growing up. I was closer to my mother's side of the family, and I deeply connected to my Greek culture's love of things like food, education, politics, and especially, family. My legal name is undeniably Greek now, and while it's certainly not the easiest to pronounce, I feel proud to carry and display that heritage to the world.

3) To specifically honor my Yiayia (grandmother): I am lucky to say that I haven't lived a single day on this earth without my grandmother. My "Yiayia" has lived with me since I was a baby, and has been a part of my daily life since the moment I first drew breath. She has been one of my greatest friends, my second-parent, teacher, and role-model. Unfortunately, she was not so lucky herself; her mother--my great grandmother-- died of a sudden heart attack when my Yiayia was 21 years old. It is a loss that she continues to deeply feel, even sixty five years later. My name change is to honor her, as well as the woman who she loved and lost so tragically young.

4) To create a new identity for myself: Ultimately, a name (especially a last name) is narrative. It carries a (sometimes good, sometimes bad) story. It connects you to something beyond yourself. It ties you to people, to places, to cultures, and traditions. At this stage in my life, lots of people are changing their names through marriage. They've had the pleasure of living 20some odd years with their birth name, and then establishing a new name as they start a family. Putting aside the fact that I am single, I always knew, for both political and personal reasons, that if I got married, I would not take my husband's name (I realize that this is not a popular opinion, but unless both people are willing to hyphenate, I don't believe that women should change their names). Despite this stance on marriage, however, I did nonetheless feel a desire to join my married friends and establish a name for myself beyond what I was given at birth.

And the time felt right. While there is still much growth to be done, at this point in my life I feel more confident, more peaceful, more sure of my desires, hopes, fears, and strengths than ever before. I wanted a new name to reflect that confidence, assurance, stability, and "meness" (a la Toni Morrison). I decided that choosing a name for myself--a name not granted by my parents or predicted by the spouse I one day choose--was perhaps one of the most independent, personal decisions I could ever make for myself. I could make a conscious choice on my own about something that I would carry with me (literally) to the grave. Ironically, names are our greatest identifiers--they declare to the world, "This is me"--yet, we rarely have much say in them. I feared what Desdemona once said: "I [could not be] the meaning of a name I did not choose." Quite simply, I wanted a choice. For me, choosing my name and having a say in something that important, was not only a way for me to declare what I was called, but also who I was.

I have chosen my name, and I have chosen my meaning. And that is me.

Saying Goodbye to 504

Right now I am in the process of dealing with an upcoming loss. It's not the loss of a person. It's the loss of a place: my apartment. This week my lease will be up, and I will move out of this little one-bedroom space that I've learned to call my second-home. I've spent many nights alone now packing up boxes, organizing things, getting stuff ready for storage. These times have offered me some quiet moments of reflection--something that I always really need when I am dealing with any kind of significant transition.

I moved into my apartment in August 2012. I went from living with my family to living alone. I didn't know a soul here. When I told people I was going to live alone, a lot of people warned me that I might be sad or scared-- after all, I was a commuter during undergrad, meaning I went from living with 5 loud and ever-present people to living completely independently without any kind of roommate experience. Despite these warnings, however, I found that I loved living alone; in fact, I relished in it. Living in a new place was hard, but not the living alone part.; in fact,  I loved the quiet, the privacy, and the idea of knowing that a space was only "mine." I loved declaring and establishing a sense of "home" for myself that I created and maintained all by myself. 

It was a beautiful space, too. You hear horror stories about people's first apartments, and I have to say that mine wasn't the standard scary narrative. I was very lucky; my apartment was in a safe area, in a quiet building with friendly neighbors and a nice landlord. It had large beautiful windows that over looked trees and a local park, it was in walking distance of my university, stores and restaurants ranging from Thai to sushi, it had lots of light, lots of space, and possessed a simple kind of charm. Nothing broke--not even once. It was an expensive area and the complex wasn't cheap, but it was worth the money. 

A part from these practical things, my apartment holds sentimental value because it is the place where I truly grew up. That sounds cliche, but it's true. It's the space where I processed some deep loss and deep happiness, where I experienced intense loneliness but also learned the true value of being alone, received great news and also heart-breaking phone calls, where I did the intense work to gain my MA degree, where I planned my first college-lessons as a TA, where I threw my first dinner party, saw dreams actualized, where I took care of myself when I was sick, where I discovered the joy of inviting friends (both old and new) into a space that was completely "mine," where I cooked, did laundry,  paid my bills, managed my finances, did dishes, dusted, vacuumed, learned how to clean a stove and put together a TV, decorated the walls, planned my future, unpacked groceries, baked treats for my grad school friends, got ready for dates, coped with a depression, watched President Obama win re-election, did Yoga on the living room floor. And, most importantly, I did all of these things all by myself. There was no roommate or person down the hall to talk to me, bhelp me, or even distract me. It was just me. These moments taught me independence and strength-- traits I already possessed but that came into full bloom when living alone. (A friend and mentor of mine actually joked, "Some people can't be that independent. You do alone very well. Maybe too well.")

I am moving back home with my family during the time  before starting a Phd program. I love my home and there are many beautiful things and people waiting for me there. I will, however, nonetheless miss my little apartment and all of what it represented.  There will never be another 504, but I like to think that I carry it--and all of what I learned while in  it--wherever I go. The interesting thing about places is that we may dwell in them for short time but they often dwell in us for far longer. I am proud to have that in me, and I am especially proud to say that I did (as the title of this blog suggests) find a new place, and it was very "right." Thank you, 504. Thank you. 

Writing and Standing

I read an article in The Chronicle recently about a professor who bought a treadmill desk to use while she is at work. It’s pretty self-explanatory: a treadmill attached to a desk replaces a chair, so you walk (instead of sit) while you work. Her story inspired me; the idea of incorporating some kind of movement into an otherwise very (physically) inactive long work-day was alluring.

I love the typical experiences of life in academia—reading, writing, thinking, discussing—but, it has always bothered me that every single one of these activities involves sitting. Academics tend to live completely in their heads, and that means often living in a chair. I’ve always found it very frustrating that I’ll wake up, sit at the office, come home, sit at my computer and write, and then go to bed; if I’m lucky, I'll take the stairs instead of an elevator, or there will be some kind of work-out thrown into my day, but it’s certainly no more than an hour. That can't be good for anyone. Even putting strenuous exercise aside, I've read so many articles that suggest how just moving—in any kind of way—is so valuable. A recent scary essay--entitled something like, "How Sitting Is Killing Us"--talked about the simple benefits of just being on your feet instead of your ass (for a lack of better words).

This awareness combined with the article from The Chronicle, inspired me to spend some of my work-day out of my chair. Despite doing Yoga and even dancing ballet for many years, I’m somewhat clumsy, and I thought typing while also walking on a moving machine seemed a bit complicated. I decided to go the less extreme route and set up a standing-desk at my apartment. I’m not walking while I work, but I am at least out of my chair; in fact, about 4-5 hours of time typically spent sitting, I am now standing. 

I've only been doing this for a week, but so far I've already seen its benefits: I have a bit more energy while I am writing. I feel more tired by the time 3 a.m. rolls around (a plus for someone who struggles with some mild insomnia). It gives me a good opportunity to work on posture. My neck and back hurt less. And, according to a handy online calculator, I burn about 50 more calories (relatively effortlessly) an hour standing than I would if I was snuggled up in a recliner in my living-room. 

Academics often forget that we are more than a brain. We especially forget that in order for those brains to function as well as we want them to, we need to take care of the bodies in which they are housed. In this world of multi-tasking and deadlines, what better way to do that than by combining our cerebral work with some physical activity? My plan was that this blog would be a place I could explore issues related to writing/the writing process. While a topic such as standing vs. sitting might seem insignificant, how I write—even on the most basic physical, bodily level—is an important part of that conversation. So, here's to more standing, and the hope that a more active and mobile existence will add some life to the page as well.

Thoughts on Women's History Month

As a young woman living in the twenty-first century, I deal with a particular set of challenges: I am trying to define myself as a scholar, academic, and future-teacher in a still (primarily) male-dominated profession. I am attempting to build a career in the midst of a bad economy, and in an even worse job market. I am living with the dual-desire to have job that leaves me happy and fulfilled, yet also completely financially independent.  I am trying to juggle health with a very sedentary existence as a writer and student. I am trying to maintain a healthy-body image and a progressive understanding of beauty in the midst of a culture that often leaves me feeling horribly inadequate. I am a single person aiming to feel "complete" when the majority of my friends are in romantic relationships. I am struggling to juggle intense work demands with familial responsibilities and commitments. I am constantly attempting to reconcile the "hard" parts of my personality (strength, independence, practicality and pragmatism) with other attributes (emotional vulnerability, intimacy, and trust) that I know are vital to my relational and emotional life. And, I am trying to travel a journey of constant self-improvement/fulfillment while still maintaining the awareness that there is a bigger world far beyond my own--a world that requires my help, my activism, and my political involvement and participation.

Looking at this list, I know I lead a life of a privilege. My challenges are primarily abstract; I am not without basic needs such as food, water, shelter, or freedom. Indeed, these are the challenges of a privileged woman, yet they are challenges nonetheless. Something like Women's History Month is inspiring to me on many levels, but especially because it reminds me of the women who have gone before me--women with challenges ten times greater than my own--who pushed through and accomplished what must have seemed impossible. Whether Alice Paul or Harriet Tubman, the women I celebrate during the month of March (and should celebrate all year long) leave me believing--whether simplistically or foolishisly or not--that with enough work, gutsiness, commitment, and enthusiasm, change is possible. 

Luckily, the term "inspiring women" is also something alive and well in my own life; such women are not only ones found in the pages of history books, but are also tangible, real people in the here-and-now who provide me with a steadfast flow of wisdom, strength, love, wisdom, courage, and humor. My mother is the ultimate embodiment of this, but I am also blessed with an amazing grandmother, aunt, and cousin. Beyond blood, yet equally influential, I possess what we lovingly refer to as an "adopted-Thea," as well as a beautiful big-sister-of-the-heart. As if family were not enough, I have a strong and stable set of female friends who bring joy to every day of my life. I am proud to say that I have never--not once at any point in my life--have lacked female community.

I don't believe there's such a thing as a singular "female experience." We're all different; our struggles, our successes, our desires, our fears, and our goals are not identical. National Women's History Month is still meaningful to me, however, because it reminds me that we can nonetheless find a sense of solidarity within the beauty of this diversity. The women who came before me championed my right, my opportunity, and my potential to be me; they fought for my right to live in this world, to occupy this space, to experience and push through the challenges of this life with the ever-abiding hope that it may even be a little easier for someone else down the road. Those women did that, and now it's my turn to do the same. I owe it to myself. I owe it to them.

Time and Thesis

I am currently in the process of writing my M.A. thesis, and, like most people, am finding it to be both a greatly fulfilling, yet also extremely challenging project. There are many things that make this so difficult--the limited and ever dwindling number of months I have to complete it, the incredibly large degree of research required, the pressure to produce something original and meaningful, to impress my advisors, etc.--but perhaps the very greatest challenge has been time management.

Time management. It's something that I used to think I was pretty good at; after all, I've long juggled things like work, school, activism, extra-curriculums, and family responsibilities, and (mostly) succeeded/survived. With the thesis, however, I find myself constantly two steps behind, constantly guilty over not working enough, and swinging back and forth between extremes of complete procrastination or complete obsession. I won't write for a whole two days, but then pull an almost completely sleepless night and write for 12 hours. I'll spend all night laying in bed feeling guilty and stressed about not hitting my page limit, but then get caught up in other responsibilities the next morning and never get to my writing. At my job, I'll spend 8 hours wishing I was at home writing, but then get home and feel too tired to write.

I know these struggles are not unique; they're the great plight of anyone writing a thesis, dissertation, or other large project--especially anyone attempting to do that writing while simultaneously holding a job or other significant responsibilities. My challenges aren't original, but they are personal and emotionally consuming nonetheless. It's terrible feeling like you might be failing at the one thing most important to you--and, that the key to not failing is ultimately in your own hands, but you just can't seem to be smart or disciplined enough to unlock the problem.

The very logical person in me knows that I will finish my writing my thesis. I'll finish writing my thesis because I am a stubborn person with a great sense of drive, conviction, and passion. Right now, however, my main concern is how I might finish my thesis not only in the most productive way, but also the most (mentally and physically) healthy way. Deep down I know I'll reach my destination, but I'd like to make the journey a little smoother. I'd especially like to be able to walk away from this experience not only with a 100-some-page manuscript, but also a set of time management and work skills that I can hopefully rely on, and refer to, for other big things in my life--both within and maybe even beyond academia.

(Suggestions, feedback, and ego-boosting comments welcomed.)

Knowing What I Want

At this stage of my life, I hear so many people say, "I just don't know what I want. I don't know where I want to end up. I just don't know who I want to be." Being in your 20s seems to mean that you are in the ultimate era of uncertainty, confusion, and self-doubt. To some degree, I can connect to such restlessness, because I know how much of my life is still in flux. I have changed so much in the last few years, so there is no way I could entertain the fantasy that who I am today is exactly who I will be when I am 35. Surely, I may end up in a different place, have different relationships, different priorities, different opinions. All of these things have changed from a year ago, so who's to say they won't change again a year from now?

 Despite some natural and inevitable insecurities, however, there is one really big part of my life that I am absolutely sure about. My career choice--my desire to teach---has not once wavered. In this part of my life (which I would argue is a relatively significant part), I do know what I want. I am not unsure. I am not hesitant. Quite frankly, I am not open to possibilities, because I know that nothing else would bring me the fulfillment and meaning that this job would. The challenges are glaring and my insecurities are at moments overpowering, but it still doesn't change what I want.

That is such a wonderful feeling. And, it's also such a terrible feeling.

It's such a wonderful feeling, because it grants my life a sense of structure and consistency that some of my friends do not have. Four years ago--my sophomore year of college--I sat down with my advisor (and now close friend) and decided that I wanted to go to graduate school so that I could one teach English on a college-level. Since then, I've had a single goal, and I've worked towards it. Every decision in my life has slowly--centimeter by centimeter--brought me closer to a dream being actualized. I can look back and identify progress.  Seeing how far I've come rationalizes and justifies the work, time, and energy that has gone into the journey. It's a wonderful feeling, because I do not toss and turn in bed at night and wonder what I am going to do with my life (instead, I wonder how I will do it). I have a deep sense of conviction, commitment, and passion for what I (believe) is one of my greatest life's purposes. My goal does not waver; my desire does not change; the future I envision and long for only becomes more clear and defined the closer I get to achieving it.

Yet, it's also such a terrible feeling, because it means that I have a hell of a lot to lose. The problem with desiring something so much is that if you don't get it, you're set up for the heartbreak of a lifetime. The problem with not being able to imagine yourself doing anything else is... well, that you can't imagine doing yourself anything else. I am lucky that I have clear and defined goals, a sense of purpose and calling; but, but this also leaves me scared and vulnerable, knowing that the more I want something, the greater the potential loss will be. Imagining this loss feels more than disappointing; it's literally identity-shaking.

I once heard someone say that you cannot ever adequately prepare for something while simultaneously believing that it may never happen. I understand the message behind this idea: Confidence and belief in oneself is invaluable! Self-doubt gets you nowhere! One's attitude will predict one's success! I am familiar with this talk. However, I also pride myself in being a fiercely realistic person--most days also quite cynical--and can't help but ask the gloomy (yet arguably also appropriate) questions such as, "What if I can't do this?" "What if this doesn't work out?" "What if it's not meant to be?" "Even if my own intelligence and tenacity is enough to get me through, what if the job market sets me up to fail?" "What if I waste a decade of my life just to end up in a career that I can never achieve?" I'd like to think I'll never have to answer such questions, but, the weekly cover story of The Chronicle of Higher Education often reminds me that there's a decent chance I will. (For a more graphic reality-check, just Google "Don't Get a PHD!" You can read about tons of bitter ex-academics who now work at Barnes & Nobles--which is also shutting down soon.)

The good news is that the more entrenched I get in this career, the more I want and love it. So far, I don't regret any of the time that I have invested in this pursuit; in fact, the time I spent in front of a classroom last semester as a Teaching Assistant were some of the most fulfilling moments of my professional career. The sad news is that the more entrenched I get in this career, the louder these questions become. And, every day, I (like many of my peers, I am sure) am left wondering if I can find some kind of balance between these two perspectives, find some kind of peace of mind that honors my goals yet doesn't succumb to ultimate naivety. So often we discuss how to live in the midst of not knowing what we want. Lately, my great question is, how do we live when do know?

Oh, some day!

"The reader knows himself as he was twenty years ago and he also has in mind a vision of what he would be, some day. Oh, some day! But the thing he never knows and never dares to know is what he is at the exact moment he is ."-William Carlos Williams, Spring and All

Things I Learned in My First Year of Grad School

Last month I had my final summer class session (I took a wonderful American Gothic course). I am officially halfway through my MA degree. 18 credits completed and a 4.0 maintained. When you consider that people on my tract tend to spend about 7 years of their life in grad school, 1 year seems like a drop in the bucket. Yet, while I am early in my journey, I feel that I learned a lot in this first year in graduate school:

I started graduate school thinking I knew everything. Now I don't know anything.
I have read a ton of new books, completed a lot of interesting research, and developed a broader vocabulary and understanding of the world. Clearly, I have grown intellectually and I am far smarter now than I was a year ago. Strangely enough, however, I don't feel smarter. I have acquired a greater amount of knowledge, yet I have far more uncertainties and questions. Graduate school has been a humbling experience because it has introduced me to writers and thinkers one hundred times greater than myself. My "intellectual universe" has become a whole lot bigger. With this humbling experience also comes excitement: I am nowhere near complete. There is so much more to learn, so many more questions to be asked, so much more room for growth.

There is a difference between male and female academics.
I should preface this by saying that I love the guys in my program. I think they're enthusiastic, funny, and incredibly smart. That being said, however, there are differences between my male and female grad school friends. The men can't necessarily help it--these differences are merely symptoms of much larger cultural problems that follow us even into the liberal Ivory Tower of Academia. Examples? Female students worry about babies and marriage. Men don't even mention them. I've heard the phrase "biological clock" quite a few times. Women in my program have considered postponing the thesis in light of wedding preparation and have expressed anxiety over what happens when they want to have children. Although not in a serious relationship, I am still constantly torn by family commitments and relationships (Am I being a good sister, daughter, granddaughter, niece, friend?). Meanwhile, men don't seem concerned. Men just do their work. Women feel guilty for their time being so divided. Although women are passionate about their research, they are less likely to argue and speak up in class. They are far less academically aggressive. I've even noticed that women in my class (myself included) are more likely to begin their comments with phrases such as, "I could be wrong..." or "This is just an idea...". Men are more precise and more committed to their opinions--even if they're far from amazing ones. Some of my professor-friends tell me that these are situations I will encounter through my entire career. They're frustrating, but I am glad I am facing them early on.

It's hard.
As an undergraduate, I may have romanticized the idea of graduate school. I'll admit it. Now, after a year, I feel like all I do is complain. I complain about it simply because it's hard. You postpone a decade of your life that could be in the workforce, you make little to no money, all so that you can earn a degree that may never even get you a job. You have an odd, inconsistent schedule and struggle to find the time to sleep. You have to read enormous--almost impossible--amounts of dense material. You're expected to produce quality, individual research. You're constantly under pressure not only to succeed, but to outshine everyone else; to say something new, different, and original; to present at conferences and get things published. You meet some awesome (and also some super egotistical) people, but you're also in a subculture that sometimes makes you feel alienated from your non-academic friends in your society still overwhelmed with anti-intellectualism. In the meantime, you have to juggle some kind of job so you can actually eat. Did I mention there's not much sleeping?

...And yet I love it.
During my undergraduate years, I had many professors tell me, "If you can see yourself doing something else, go do it." Many might perceive this as mean-hearted, but I realize now that they were only being truthful. A career in academia is a long, hard, unreliable road to travel. If there's something easier to do that you also find enjoyable, why wouldn't you do it? What I've learned from being in graduate school is that despite all of my frustrations, there's nothing else I could see myself doing at this point in time. If someone were to ask me, "What's your dream career?" I'd say that I am already pursuing it. I've considered other possibilities (food critic? animal shelter worker?), but when it comes down to it, this is all I truly want. Speaking purely of happiness and fulfillment, it is my only option. There may come a day when this will change, but for now I am where I need and want to be. Caring so much about what you are pursuing is both a liberating and wonderful thing, but also a scary thing. Most days, I find myself juggling immense gratefulness with utter paranoia. What I've discovered in the meantime is that all of these feelings are part of the very experience of a true intellectual journey: you think, you grapple with ideas, you expand, and you question. Somewhere in that messy cerebral venture you strangely find yourself living a more enriched life, both within and beyond the mind.

Still a Novice, Mixing with Experts

This past semester, a professor told me that I am incredibly good at receiving, handling, and responding to constructive criticism. While at first I didn't find this remark flattering (it suggests I receive a noticeable amount of criticism in the first place?), these words from Yoshida Kenko reminded me that I should count this comment as a compliment. Refusing to accept constructive criticism and guidance salvages pride in the moment, but in the end, is only counterproductive. If graduate school has taught me anything, it's that there is always more to learn. I am lucky to be surrounded by people who can make me better.

"A man who is trying to learn some art is apt to say, 'I won't rush things and tell people I am practicing while I am still a beginner. I'll study myself, and only when I have mastered the art will I perform before people. How impressed they'll be then!'

People who speak in this fashion will never learn any art. The man who, even while still a novice, mixes with the experts, not ashamed of their harsh comments or ridicule, and who devotedly persists at his practice, unruffled by criticism, will never become stultified in his art nor carless with it. Though he may lack natural gifts, he will with the passage of the years outstrip the man who coasts on his endowments, and in the end will attain the highest degree of skill, acquire authority in his art, and the recognition of the public, and win an unequaled reputation.

The performers who now rank as the most skilled were at the very beginning considered incompetent, and indeed, had shocking faults. However, by faithfully maintaining the principles of their heart and holding them to honor, rather than indulging in their own fancies, they have become paragons of the age and teachers for all.

This holds true for every art." (Essays in Idleness, Yoshida Kenko)

Seeing With New Eyes

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, so they say. I suppose I've always believed that cliche to be possible, but it was only this past year that I really experienced its truth.

I have lived in south central Pennsylvania my entire life. I grew up on a quiet street, my best friend two houses down the road, surrounded by quaint farmlands, windy country roads, trees, and animals. I took all of this granted. It wasn't anything special; it was just my everyday life. When I moved to the city for graduate school and returned home, however, it seemed as though I was seeing everything with new eyes--or, even more accurately, it seemed as though I was seeing everything for the first time. I would drive down a country road--a road I had travelled hundreds of times before--and find that it took my breath away. Was the blue sky always that vast? Were the rolling valleys always that green, that full of life? Were the scenes always so serene, peaceful, majestic? Did the sun always set like that--ever so perfectly--just above that rustic red barn? Was the air always that clean? When did everything become so breath-taking? Did I always have such a desire to live in a house in the woods? And, most importantly: Why hadn't I thought of any of this before?


Of course, nothing had changed. I didn't go to the city and come back to a new place. I did, however, come back with new and different set of eyes. We're told that we need to see other parts of the world; that to do so is good, enriching, and beneficial for us. Living in the city made me realize that perhaps we don't need to see other parts of the world merely for themselves, but rather, also so that we will finally see our own homes and roots more clearly (for good or for bad). I was lucky. I went away--barely two hours--returned, and discovered beauty. I found that despite how I romanticized the city for most of my life, I also sincerely loved the farmlands, my garden, open spaces, places to hike, quiet, fresh air.

It is very likely that I will spend a bit of my life living in a city--particularly for a PhD program. Such a place has its charm (more open-mindedness and RESTAURANTS TO DIE FOR) and I have learned to appreciate and value the busy, exciting mood of city life. Yet, one's first "move" away from home is always the most significant, and mine certainly showed me that no matter where I go there will always be a part of me that is here. There will always be a part of me that aches for the beauty that is found at home. The beauty that was always here but I have only now begun to see.

Becoming a Vegetarian

If someone were to ask me what sort of "beliefs" I strive to have govern my life, I'd probably say things like: The belief that life is precious, regardless of how significant or insignificant it may seem. The belief that my life is not any more precious than anyone else's. The belief that everyone deserves a fair shake. The belief that we all need to look out for one another and live together peacefully. The belief that treating others as inferior never makes us superior. The belief that we have a duty to take care of our world (and although this certainly includes humanity, it is not the only part of that responsibility).

I always felt that eating meat was somewhat in conflict with the beliefs I articulated above. Being a vegetarian was something I considered for years, but I put it off for a long time--mostly out of laziness and selfishness. At the start of 2013, however, I really wanted to make some changes in my life, and I knew that vegetarianism had to be on the list. This new years resolution coincided perfectly with an Ecocriticism course I took my spring semester. One of the first texts on the syllabus was a book called Of Man and Animal which brought some deep philosophical questions about meat-eating to my mind. Many of the author's points about the agency of animals and the difference (or lack thereof) between man/beast left me feeling even more guilty than usual. My ecocriticism professor's weekly question, "Do the trees have agency?" rang in my mind during every interaction I had with nature--especially my interactions with animals.

By the fourth week of January, I had committed myself to giving up meat. Nearing six months now, I can say that I'd be extremely surprised if I ever went back.


The rumor is that being a vegetarian limits you, but I've actually had the very opposite experience. When I gave up meat, I had to figure out how to fill up a substantial part of my plate; this forced me to try new kinds of food and experiment with many different tastes. Before, I rarely ate beans; now, they're a staple of my meals. I eat more nuts and eggs and experiment with all kinds of spices and grains. I make fruit smoothies, vegetable chili/soups, and elaborate salads. Overall, giving up meat was a small sacrifice that really only expanded my tastes. It gave more than it took away.

Upon deciding to do this, I had so many friends ask me if I was going to be one of those judgmental vegetarians who make them feel guilty for eating meat. This is what I say: Because my experience has been so positive, I'd recommend vegetarianism. In general, I think it's a healthier and more moral lifestyle. But, I also know that food is a personal thing and I strive to not judge people who eat differently than I do. Although I no longer eat meat, I'd never say that I didn't like it or that I still wouldn't enjoy it if I ate it today. When I walk the streets of Philadelphia, sometimes I want a cheesesteak. I don't think meat is gross--in fact, it's probably still quite delicious--and I don't think it's impossible to eat meat and still be healthy. Being a vegetarian isn't necessarily a wrong or right choice, but it is my choice. Like any choice, it can hold both positive and/or negative implications depending on the person making it. For me, giving up meat has been a very good choice, as it has made me a much healthier person--not merely physically--but also mentally, as I sense that I am one small step closer to living in a state of what a wise teacher once coined as 'integrity': The state of your beliefs and your actions being in harmony. 

Small Dreams Actualized

Last week I registered for my last semester of course work for my MA degree (after that, it's the thesis). Along with my own courses, I also officially registered for a Teaching Assistant position in an undergraduate level African American literature course. The chance to be a TA as an MA student was one of the main reasons why I chose my particular graduate program. I grew even more excited about the opportunity when I learned that our university's resident African American literature scholar heard about my work on Toni Morrison and was willing to work with me.

For some, a TA position seems like a very insignificant step in higher education. For me, however, it feels like a small piece of my dream being actualized. Ever since I was on a sophomore in college I have wanted to go to graduate school so that I could teach in higher education. Since then, I have faced immense discouragement and doubt over things such as my ability to truly "stand out" in a program or the difficult job market, but I have never doubted my desire to teach and my sincere belief that, if given the opportunity to run a classroom, I could do a good job and be a great teacher. While all of the other outside factors worried (and continue to worry) me, I am happy to say that my desire to teach literature in higher education has not.

Getting a TA position then, made me feel like I took one step--a small one--towards that classroom. It made me feel that one small piece of my dream was being validated. It made me feel that in some way all of the work, mental agony, and fear had been worth it because I was a little closer to my final destination.

Ultimately, we don't know where we'll end up. But, in the pursuit of a dream we all need those small encouragements that are enough to push us on. Hopefully we'll push on enough to get to the next one that pushes us on again. I don't know what the end holds. Today though, I am encouraged, because a year ago I was worried I would not get into grad school, and today I am signed up for my final courses and my first experience instructing a college-level classroom. I couldn't ask for more.

Why I Am Rising

I am rising because there's not a day that goes by where rape and sexual assault do not cross my mind. I am rising because I consider rape and sexual assault every time I walk through a parking lot late at night, take a jog in the evening, or get off a train when it is dark. I am rising because someone once told me that instead of spending my money on Yoga classes, it would be “more practical” to take a self-defense course. I am rising because rape and sexual assault is simply a normal part of the female experience and for some reason we’ve all just accepted that reality. I am rising because some men believe that if they text me, touch me, or pursue me, they are simply entitled to my response.

I am rising because I have friends who were raped not only by strangers, but also by boyfriends, friends, uncles, and fathers. I am rising because my friends have been raped and sexually assaulted at parties, on vacations, in their homes and in their schools. I am rising because I have seen women’s lives and relationships ruined from years of abuse. I am rising because what I have described above would be considered utopia for women in other parts of the world. I am rising for the Democratic Republic of Congo--the "rape capital" of the world--where the average little girl is raped by the time she is 8 years old. I am rising for the women whose bodies have been so violated that they can no longer carry out basic functions. I am rising for the girl in India who becomes a wife by 12 years old. I am rising for the many women who have no idea what it means to own or enjoy their own sexuality because it has always belonged to someone else.

I am rising because little boys are taught that being violent is simply "boyish" behavior. I am rising because I still live in a world where people are more comfortable with men holding guns than they are with men holding hands. I am rising because I don't want my future son to think that the worst thing he could ever possibly be called is a "girl." I am rising because I don't think guys have to "man up."

I am rising because I want a better world for the two special little girls in my life--the "nieces of my heart." I am rising because I want them to always feel safe. I want them to grow up and believe that they can do anything; walk down the street and be unharmed, speak their mind, be respected, run for president, love and enjoy their bodies. I am rising because I want them to grow up and have a little less anxiety, discouragement, and fear than I do.

I am rising so that my future daughter doesn't have to. Will you rise with me?

A Year of Yoga

2012 has come and gone, and we are almost a month into 2013. Looking back, I would say that 2012 was the most difficult, challenging and formative year of my entire life. I could write about so many things: applying to graduate school, graduating with my BA degree, leaving a community I loved, moving to a new city, starting a graduate program, starting my first "real" job, living alone for the first time, my parents getting divorced, my best friend moving to South Korea, or learning to redefine myself and my understandings of things like faith, family, identity, and purpose. While each of these things are important and worthy of analysis, I instead choose to write about what helped me cope, deal, grapple, and embrace all of these experiences: My Yoga practice.

Yoga was long something I was interested in, but I disregarded it because I was involved in so many other forms of exercise. I was also weary of what appeared to me to be the "new age" culture that sometimes coincided with the lifestyle. Quite frankly, all the hippie lingo and pseudoscience disgusted me. That being said, however, I had a lot of empty excuses for doing something that I knew would be good for me. It was not until a very dear friend surprised me with the graduation gift of an expensive Yoga mat that I knew I could no longer avoid the inevitable. I drove to my first class the rainy morning of May 14th, just two days after my graduation. I felt stressed and emotionally raw, but I can still remember being on my Yoga mat feeling like my mind was cleared and my body was strengthened from what appeared to just be 90 minutes of strenuous exercise. It was a high.

But, as I committed to a serious practice from that day forward, I realized that while Yoga certainly does lift my spirits in ways no other exercise has, it also has its torturous moments. Even if only for one hour, it forces me to do things that all go against my very stubborn nature: be completely emotionally/mentally present, be patient with my body, suspend my skepticism and cynicism, concentrate on the process rather than the destination, push through fatigue and bad days, abandon the notion of perfection, stop multi-tasking, stop comparing myself to others, and be in my body rather than my brain. In this sense, Yoga has given me physical strength and flexibility, but it has also "exercised" my mind in significant ways too. I feel like a healthier, happier, and more peaceful person.

If it all sounds too good to be true, maybe it is. I'm probably still in some kind of exercise "honey moon" phase. But, there's no denying that Yoga came into my life the year I needed it the most. When I look at 2012, I see many challenging experiences that at moments were excruciating. I also see a warm, sun-lit studio, teachers who said "Don't forget to breathe," a Yoga mat, and a body that--like my heart/mind--was eager to learn, to grow, to take new shapes, to cope with challenges, and to stretch; to stretch in that great, exhaustive, expansive way that tears down even as it cures, that causes discomfort even while it somehow offers great relief.

PhD Anxieties & Enjoying the Moment

Last week I went to a forum for prospective PhD students. We spoke with students currently enrolled in PhD programs, as well as young professors who recently graduated from PhD programs. While there was positive feedback from most, there are inevitably some rather gloomy details about graduate school that tend to sometimes weigh out the good, including (but not limited to) the extreme stress of obtaining a degree and writing a dissertation, a very bad job market, very competitive PhD programs, and a lack of tenure teaching jobs. While I am painfully aware of such realities, the forum brought so many “What if?” questions to the forefront of my mind.

I came back to my apartment and called my mother (aka Ultimate Source of Wisdom and Encouragement) and she said, "Are you enjoying what you're doing right now? If so, let that be enough." Although at first it seemed like overly simple and sentimental advice, when I sat down at my kitchen table that night to write a paper, her words returned to me. Am I enjoying what I am doing right now? Right in this moment? Well, yes. Yes, I am. 

I am reading many new books--some that I love, some that I don't love, but all that I appreciate. I am being exposed to new sets of ideas that can inform my life both within and beyond the walls of the university. I am engaging in deep discussions about race, gender, and sexuality with like-minded people. I am becoming a better writer and researcher. I am writing about the relationship between ideology, culture, and literature. I am developing a new vocabulary. I am being taught how to be an active and critical reader. My mind is being stretched and I am learning something new every day. And I am doing that all for free, because I’ve been blessed with complete tuition remission. How many people have the privilege of taking two years of their life to dedicate solely to reading, writing, researching, and discussing that which is meaningful to them? There may be no other time in my life that I can do something like this, and some never get the luxury at all.

It dawned on me that even if I don’t get my PhD—even if I were to go in a completely different direction after my MA degree—I am still blessed with the unique experience to study what I love, with no financial hardships. PhD or no PhD, I still graduate as a richer person, equipped with a broader vocabulary and knowledge, as well as a unique set of experiences that both challenged and fulfilled me. Most importantly, here in this very moment (all that's truly guaranteed anyway) I am enjoying what I am doing. And for now, that's enough.

Election Reflections

This past Tuesday, I sat in my apartment and watched as the words, "President Obama Re-Elected!" flash across my television screen. I voted for President Obama months ago via absentee-ballot, and since then had no other choice but to wait patiently while my fellow Americans decided who should be our next Commander in Chief. After watching Mitt Romney's concession and the president's acceptance speech, I tossed and turned in bed that night until close to 4am reflecting on everything that I learned this election season.

I learned that politics are personal. I think I always knew this, but it became even more profound during this election with issues such as gay marriage and abortion/women's health being important topics in political discourse. There were moments when I read Facebook statuses from my conservative friends about gay marriage and I would feel mentally and physically drained, exhausted from arguing and defending the rights of my gay loved ones. I was reminded that as much as we like to separate ourselves from "political" issues, we are forever attached to them. The personal is political. It's tied to everything important to us: our religions, our experiences, our present and future lives, and our values concerning life, death, faith, ethics, sexuality, and work. The immense significance that such topics can hold reveals why it is so important to make sure we talk about them, and especially that we talk about them in constructive ways.

This election taught me how grateful I am for intelligent and respectful debate. I have many people who disagree with me, but only a few who can disagree with me constructively and politely. I have a few Republican/moderate friends in particular--Gene and Rachel--who are always willing to dialogue with me, share ideas with me, and listen to my point of view. I must admit that sometimes it's nice to sit around with my most passionate liberal friends and rant about how "utterly stupid" we think Republicans are. Sometimes you need that. But, at the end of the day, we all know that while such dialogue is momentarily gratifying, it's not productive; it doesn't make me or anyone else better. The kind of discussions I have with people like Gene and Rachel, however, hold potential to do something powerful: they can force us to see another perspective and/or force us to are-evaluate our own. I especially experienced the latter this election season. While most if not all of my ideas stayed the same even while being put under question, they did nonetheless actually strengthen after being tested. I walked away with a renewed commitment to my own values. I would hope that even if I did not change my conservative friends' minds, that they too felt a deeper, more thoughtful and reasonable investment in their own principles. 

Additionally, I learned that I am still a believer. Obviously, I am careful not to fall into the "One Leader Solves All" trap, because I know that neither Barack Obama nor Mitt Romney have the power to single handedly destroy or fix an entire country. I know that true world-changers are not politicians, but rather, activists who receive a hell of a lot less money and fame. However, despite this realization, I am still a believer in the power and ability of my government to make and maintain positive change. I still believe that I can elect leaders who will defend my rights and the rights of my loved ones. I am still honored to be able to have the freedom to participate in this messy yet wonderful democracy.

And lastly, I learned that this "belief" can be rewarded, because when I woke up on November 7th 2012, I had more reason to hope in my society than I did the day before. After that election night, I had four more years of a president who I believe is doing good things for my country. I had more women representing me in Congress than ever in American history. A record number of young people showed up at the polls and voted. A record number of Latino, African American, and female voters showed up at the polls and voted. My gay friends could get married in three new states--Maryland, Maine, and Washington. For the first time in American history, gay marriage was passed by popular vote. The first openly gay female senator was elected. Elizabeth Warren was elected. And, Todd Akin--the man who made some brutally stupid comments about rape and pregnancy earlier in the year--lost reelection by a landslide.

I told a friend recently that I will have so much more time to dedicate to other things now that the election over. She looked at me and said, "You're freaking insane." She's right. I am freaking insane for arguing over the same issues again and again with people who may never change their minds. I am insane for reading the articles, the opinion columns, the political comics, and the polls. I am insane for believing that a flawed yet powerful system can create positive change. I am insane for looking forward to doing it all over again in 2016; not because the process in itself is enjoyable, but simply because I still hold onto the irrational yet self-sustaining hope of this democracy: that my vote and my voice can somehow make a difference.

One Month Update

It has been exactly one month since I started graduate school. I have not blogged mostly because there has been much I have been processing and experiencing that I didn't feel I had the ability to put into actual words. Living in a new place, starting a new school, and a new job were major changes in themselves, but even they were somewhat eclipsed by a recent family situation that has left me rather imbalanced. Until I am able to write something more profound, I will instead offer a basic update on the last 30 days.

I am currently taking two courses: Lit Theory & The Profession of Literature, and Women & Skepticism: Early American Literature. So far both of these courses have been difficult (especially the reading load and level of writing), but also incredibly rewarding. The graduate school classroom has offered me a safe place where like-minded people strive to understand and challenge the complex ideas within our field. It has only been four weeks, and I already feel that I have learned so much about my discipline.

A part from my schooling, I am enjoying my part time job as the head graduate assistant in the university's Gender and Women's Studies department. It is different from my work in the Women's Center during undergrad in that it is an academic department rather than a resource center, but it seems to do a decent job at offering programs that cater to both activism and academics. I help manage the major/minor (which is relatively small at this point), as well as plan/coordinate events that relate to gender and women's issues. Tomorrow, for instance, we have an event that is a joint lecture and poetry reading that focuses on Anna Douglass. I am slowly being given more responsibilities and am especially looking forward to the opportunity of leading a pop-culture book club for undergraduate students. I'm starting with Fifty Shades of Grey. Go big or go home, right?

In closing, a quote in one of my theoretical articles found great resonance with me: "Although time can always be studied scientifically and broken up into equal units, time is also always lived subjectively. As we know, one minute of routine work is lived very differently than a moment of a passionate kiss." Time has always perplexed me, but that mystification has now only grown more profound. In many ways, the last 30 days have felt like years; yet in another breath, like days. For the relatively short amount of time it has been, I have already learned and experienced so much. It is difficult for me to imagine all of what is still to come.

(Until then, I extend an ever-grateful "thanks" to my loved ones who have supported me, cheered for me, prayed for me, listened to my complaints, and stood by me as I continue to adjust. It is no exaggeration to say that I survive--and have any chance at succeeding--everyday in the classroom and in the office because of the people who offer me such steadfast support.)

Right Places

I call this blog a "new write place" with the hopes of acknowledging that prior to this new stage of life, there was another place that I felt was truly right. The four years I spent at a small liberal arts college were some of the very happiest of my entire life. I was not only having fun, enjoying the people I was with, studying what I love, and feeling like I was making a difference, but I was also overwhelmed with this deep rooted sense that I was in the right place. I had an unwavering peace and contentment that I was in the absolute right place at the right time, being exactly who I wanted to be, and doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing. I never had this kind of contentment before, and truth be told, it was somewhat intoxicating.

One of my main fears then about graduating was that I would lose that peace and never again be able to find it. (This may sound dramatic to some, but keep in mind that this was in fact a fear and most fears are not rational.) In response to this, I have really tried to reflect on the importance of appreciating the stage of your life that you are in rather than pining for the better one behind you (or the supposed better one ahead of you). In Yoga class, we are asked to quietly reflect on a particular word and I will often dwell on "contentment"; that is, contentment to be here, in this place, at this moment, whatever that place and that moment happens to be.

But, that's really easy to utter in Yoga class and a hell of a lot harder to actually live out. I must admit that yesterday at my new university's orientation it was difficult for me not to compare this academic community to my old one. Often times I will find criticisms and negative comparisons floating across my mind. I was telling a friend about this and she encouraged me to do what I constantly long for others to do politically and ideologically: embrace difference. What this means is that I don't expect my new institution, new home, new friendships to be the same as what I had before; rather, I embrace that one is not necessarily better or worse than the other, they are just different.

This is profound advice. When those sneaky and unfair comparisons rage, I have to consciously remind myself although this place certainly isn't the same, it can still be right and good.  Besides excelling in my studies, that is my number one goal; to make right and feel right in the place that I am in. Like embracing and celebrating any kind of difference, this will have moments of discomfort, but it will also reap great personal expansion. I know that the key to real contentment is willingness to grow and be stretched as I embrace different experiences even while I continue to cherish the ones that are behind me.

Beginnings

The months of January-May 2010 make up what I lovingly refer to as my “magical semester.” This was the spring semester of my sophomore year, the 19th year of my life, and it was a time of great awakening, inspiration, and fulfillment. I switched my concentration to Literature. All of my classes were related to my majors. I took a class called Literary Theory that challenged every belief, idea, and understanding of the world that I possessed. Ideologically, I was shaken to the core. I formed a couple friendships that remain some of the most important relationships in my life. For the very first time, I held leadership positions in different activism roles. I also officially decided that my dream was to go to graduate school and get my PhD.

Since that afternoon in March when I sat with my academic advisor and declared, “This is what I want,” I have worked effortlessly to make sure I get into graduate school. After two years of writing, studying, and applying, I was finally accepted into three schools and chose one with the best financial package. Now my reality is that in exactly one week, I will move to a new city all by myself, start a job as a head graduate assistant, and begin work on my MA degree in English.

I mention my “magical semester” because I believe that’s where this journey was birthed. If my academic journey were a narrative, I would say that my “magical semester” was the chronological beginning. Like the most classical beginnings in a narrative, its role is to a set story into motion; it is a catalyst; it is, as the Oxford Dictionary would define, a moment or series of moments that brings something “into being.” While I would argue that life is made up of a constant stream of endless beginnings (many we don’t even realize), my “magical” semester was a markedly conscious beginning that set this new journey of mine into movement.

This upcoming journey is the reason why I felt that I needed a new blog. My older site was full of entries that reflect some of the most meaningful happenings in my life, but I feel that they are a collection of moments that ultimately compose a very different part of my life. A different chapter in my story. I felt that a new job, a new degree, a new city, and a new stage of life called for a different writing “space.” I am dwelling in a new place physically—in an apartment, a city, and different academic community. My writing needs a figurative space in which it can explore, grapple with, and process these new physical spaces.

I wish that I could end this first entry will something incredibly profound or meaningful, but the truth is I can’t. I have many feelings as I enter this stage of life—more conflicting feelings than I have ever had about any transition—and all I can do is feel each emotion as it comes. I have no idea what to expect, and because of that, I’ve decided not to expect much at all. The very most I can say is that I am immensely thankful to have been given this opportunity to pursue my dream, to study what I love, and to be privileged enough to embark on a journey that is fully about my own aspirations. May I take these next few years and live them well.