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?
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Monday, February 10, 2014
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
Thursday, August 1, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
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)
"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)
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, April 26, 2013
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.
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.
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